Bella

A fox lay half-hidden beneath a fern, too still, eyes glazed as coins.

Near the creek, a rabbit slumped on its side, fur damp, throat a neat, cruel puncture. No tearing. No waste. Just… drained.

Vampire.

Again.

Your magic rose in your chest like a storm swelling behind your ribs, bright and angry. The vines at your ankles quivered, waking at the pull of your mood. A spray of tiny white blossoms opened along the path you hadn’t stepped on yet, as if the forest was holding its breath—waiting to see what you would do.

“Princess,” a voice said behind you, tight as a bowstring. “Please—”

You turned.

Lysa, one of the elder court’s spokesfairies, hovered a handspan off the ground, wings flickering with agitation. Around her, the others had gathered in a half-moon: fierce little points of light in the gloom, their glamour dimmed by worry.

“They’re going to blame us,” another snapped, a younger fairy with sharp cheekbones and sap-green hair. “They always blame us when humans die, when beasts go missing, when something dark moves through our woods like it owns them.”

“No human has died,” Lysa said, though her eyes darted away like the lie burned. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” the green-haired fairy echoed, bitter.

You let your gaze sweep over them. Torn sleeves from last night’s skirmish with a thorn-wolf. A smear of ash across someone’s forehead. Everyone too tired, too bright-eyed, too on-edge.

The forest had always been yours in a way it wasn’t for anyone else. Not because of your title, not because of the delicate crown of woven ivy the court insisted you wear during council, but because nature listened to you the way it listened to no one. You didn’t command it like a soldier. You didn’t bargain like a merchant.

You understood.

And right now, it was screaming.

“He’s not just feeding,” you said softly.

They went still.

You crouched beside the rabbit, fingers hovering over its fur. A whisper of pollen and light slid from your palm. The rabbit’s chest rose once—just once—before it stilled again. Too late. You could coax a bud into bloom, could pull rain from a stubborn sky, could stitch bark back together after an axe bite, but you couldn’t pour a soul back into a body that had already gone cold.

Your throat tightened.

“He’s taking too much,” you finished, voice sharper. “And he’s doing it too close to the heartwood.”

“That castle has been there for centuries,” Lysa said. “Before any of us wore these wings. Before the court was even… named.”

“And in those centuries,” the green-haired fairy cut in, “something inside it has been starving.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“We’ve tried warding the tree-line,” someone said, frantic. “We’ve tried binding circles. We tried sending animals away—”

“And he still found them,” Lysa whispered.

You could feel the forest’s answer like a bruise beneath your tongue: He hunts by scent. He hunts by thirst. He hunts because he can’t stop.

“Then we stop him,” you said.

“You mean you stop him,” the green-haired fairy said immediately, too quick, too bright with something like relief and resentment tangled together. “Because if you go—if you walk up there like you’re invincible—”

“—you might not come back,” Lysa finished, her voice breaking at the edges. “We’re not asking because we don’t care. We’re asking because we care too much.”

Your magic hummed, answering your emotion by curling ivy around your wrist like a bracelet, gentle as a hand.

“Send a battalion?” you asked. “He’ll pick you off. Send envoys?” you scoffed softly. “He’ll laugh. Keep doing nothing?” You gestured at the rabbit, the fox, the darkening stains in the grass. “The forest will die a slow death and we’ll pretend it’s not our fault.”

Silence.

Then, from the very back, a small voice—young, trembling—said, “He killed my doe.”

Your head snapped up.

A tiny fairy—barely more than a glow with wings—held her hands in fists like she was trying not to shake. Tears made her cheeks shine.

“She was my friend,” the child whispered.

Something in you went very calm.

When you stood, the air thickened around you, warm and fragrant, as if the forest itself was leaning in. The trees stirred, leaves whispering, branches angling toward you like an audience.

“I’m going,” you said.

Lysa’s jaw tightened. “If you go alone—”

“I won’t,” you said, though your eyes said I will if I have to.

A beat.

Then Lysa exhaled, resigned. “Take a guard. Take three. Let us—”

“No,” you said, gentler. “You stay. Keep the wards up. Keep the court from ripping itself apart while I’m gone.”

The green-haired fairy bristled. “So you can play hero and come back to a crown of flowers—”

You flicked your fingers.

A rosebush burst from the earth between you and her, blooming in a single heartbeat—white roses, sharp thorns, petals like fresh snow. Not an attack. A boundary.

Every fairy stilled.

You looked at her over the blossoms, your voice quiet enough that only she and the forest heard it. “This isn’t about glory.”

Her glare faltered.

“It’s about survival,” you finished. “For all of us.”

Then you turned toward the path that led up the hill.

Toward the castle.

Toward the darkness that had been drinking your forest dry.

The castle was the kind of thing nightmares built when they had too much time.

Black stone stacked into jagged spires, windows like slit eyes, ivy strangling the lower walls as if it had once tried to reclaim the place and failed. A gate arched open, not broken—inviting. The courtyard beyond held statues that were too smooth to be purely decorative, like they’d once been living things and someone had decided they looked better as stone.

Your wings stayed hidden under your glamour, pressed against your back like a secret. Your dress, spun from petal-silk, didn’t drag in the mud. Your bare feet left no prints. You carried no weapon.

You didn’t need one.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air changed.

The forest’s scent—green, sweet, alive—thinned like mist burned away by sun. Here, everything smelled of cold iron and old smoke. And underneath it… something else. Hunger. Ancient and sharp.

Your magic crawled up your spine, restless.

You moved through the courtyard toward the massive doors.

They opened before you touched them.

No creak. No groan.

Just a smooth, deliberate swing.

As if the castle had been waiting.

Inside, the hall stretched long and dim, lit by candles that didn’t flicker. Shadows clung to the corners like they were afraid of the light. The floor was polished so perfectly your reflection stared back at you—a pale shape with eyes too bright and a mouth set in a line.

And at the end of the hall, beneath a staircase that split like ribs, a man leaned against a pillar as if this was a tavern and he was bored.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked like a story told to scare children—broad shoulders, dark clothes, hair falling into his eyes. But the real terror was the stillness. The kind that belonged to predators that didn’t need to hurry.

His eyes found you.

Blue—too blue in this dimness. Like ice with something molten trapped underneath.

“Fairy,” he drawled, voice low, amused. “Did the court finally decide to send a princess instead of a threat letter?”

Your jaw tightened. “You’ve been feeding in our woods.”

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile.

“Your woods,” he echoed, like the words tasted strange.

You took a step forward. The air reacted—dust lifting, candle flames bending toward you. A thin vine slipped out of a crack in the stone and curled around your ankle, protective.

“Those animals,” you said, keeping your voice level. “They’re not yours to take.”

Bucky’s gaze dipped—not to your ankle, not to the vine, but to your throat. Your pulse was steady, but you felt it anyway—the way his attention hooked into it like a blade.

“They’re not yours either,” he murmured.

“I don’t drain them,” you snapped. “I nurture them. I heal them. I—”

He pushed off the pillar.

The movement was fluid, almost lazy, and still your body tensed like prey.

He stopped several feet away, close enough that you could see the faint, silver sheen at the edges of his pupils—like moonlight caught under ice.

“Then heal this,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

His hand lifted, palm up. For the first time, you noticed he wore a glove on one hand and nothing on the other—metal fingers catching the candlelight, too perfect, too wrong against the ancient stone.

He tugged the glove off his flesh hand with his teeth.

Then he turned that hand toward you.

There, across the inside of his wrist, was a burn mark—old and angry. Not from sunlight, but from something else. Magic, maybe. A rune. A brand.

It pulsed faintly, the way a dying ember pulses when wind hits it.

Your magic reacted immediately, tugging toward it like a moth toward flame.

“You’re marked,” you breathed.

His gaze didn’t leave your face. “Cursed,” he corrected. “Bound. Starved.”

“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re always hungry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Not like this.”

The hall seemed to lean in around you, listening.

You steadied yourself. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t give you the right to kill the forest.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, something feral flickered across his features—hunger, frustration, a flash of pain so raw it made your chest pinch.

“You think I like it?” he asked, voice suddenly hard. “You think I wake up and decide I’m going to bleed your woods dry because it’s fun?”

Your wings twitched beneath your glamour, anxious.

“I don’t care what you like,” you said, though the words didn’t come out as sharp as you wanted. “I care what you’re doing.”

He took another step. The candles didn’t flicker, but you felt the temperature drop.

“You came here to demand I stop,” he said, voice smooth again. “So what are you offering in return, princess?”

“I’m offering mercy,” you said, chin lifting.

His laugh was quiet, almost affectionate. “Mercy.”

You bristled. “You’ll leave the forest. You’ll hunt elsewhere. Or you’ll learn to feed without killing.”

His gaze flicked—briefly—to the vine at your ankle, then back to your face. “And if I can’t?”

“Then we end you,” you said.

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“You think your court can?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you lied, because you had to. Because if he smelled fear, you were done.

He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

“No,” he murmured. “They sent you because they can’t. They sent you because you’re the only one with enough power to make a difference.”

Your throat tightened.

“And they sent you,” he continued, voice almost gentle, “because they’re willing to spend you to save themselves.”

Heat flared in your chest—anger, indignation. “You don’t know my people.”

“I know desperation,” he said simply. “I know what it does.”

Silence.

Your magic stirred, restless. Somewhere deep in the castle, a draft whispered through stone like a sigh.

You forced yourself to stay steady. “Stop feeding in the forest.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped again—not to your throat this time.

Lower.

To the place between your thighs where your body warmed at the sheer, infuriating closeness of him. Like your skin was betraying you, responding to predator proximity with something that wasn’t fear.

His nostrils flared.

You felt it the moment he smelled it: the faint sweetness of your arousal, floral and bright, bleeding into the cold air like spilled nectar.

His eyes went half-lidded.

“Oh,” he breathed, and there it was—the hunger, unmistakable. “That’s what you are.”

Your cheeks heated. “Excuse me?”

He took another step. Now he was close enough that you could see the faint fang tips when he spoke.

“Fairies,” he murmured, voice low, reverent in a way that made your stomach twist. “Nature’s heart. Magic in flesh.”

You swallowed. “Back up.”

His gaze lifted to your face, and something wicked curled in his expression.

“You can demand all you want,” he said. “But if you’re asking me to stop feeding, you’re asking me to starve.”

“You won’t starve,” you snapped, though your voice wavered. “You’ll hunt elsewhere—”

“I don’t want elsewhere,” he cut in, so fast it startled you. Then, quieter, like he’d revealed too much: “I can’t. Not with this.” He flexed his wrist, the mark pulsing. “It pulls me here. The forest. The heartwood. Your magic.”

Your stomach dropped.

It made a horrible kind of sense—the way the killings had gotten worse the closer they came to the heartwood. Like something was dragging him in.

“You’re tethered,” you whispered, horror and anger tangling. “To us.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften. “And you walked into my house like you didn’t know.”

Your magic flared defensively. The vine at your ankle tightened, thorns rising.

“What do you want?” you asked, voice shaking with fury.

Bucky leaned in just slightly, enough that his breath brushed your cheek—cold and faintly metallic, like winter air.

“I’ll stop feeding on your animals,” he said.

Suspicion snapped through you. “Just like that?”

His lips curved. “Not for free.”

Of course.

You lifted your chin. “Name your price.”

His gaze dropped again, slow and deliberate, and your body responded with a traitorous pulse of warmth.

“I want you,” he said, voice like velvet dragged over steel.

The hall seemed to go very quiet.

Your wings trembled beneath your glamour.

“You want—” You choked on the words, anger rising fast to cover the sudden, sharp spark of something else. “You think you can bargain for my body?”

“I’m not bargaining for your body,” he corrected softly. “I’m bargaining for what’s inside it.”

Your breath caught.

Fairy magic wasn’t like other magic. It lived in blood and bone, yes—but more than that, it lived in pleasure. In the way life created life. In the way spring returned after winter. In the way flowers opened, shameless and bright.

And vampires… vampires fed on life.

Not just blood. Not just flesh.

Life.

You felt it then, the way his hunger pressed against your aura like fingers against a window, trying to get in.

Your voice came out thin. “You want to feed on me.”

Bucky’s eyes held yours, unblinking. “Yes.”

Fear flickered, quick and sharp.

And then—worse—curiosity.

Because the forest’s pulse beneath your feet eased, just slightly, like it recognized the shape of a solution.

You hated that.

“I’m not your meal,” you said, voice hard.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “No.”

He leaned closer, just enough that you could smell him—cold stone, faint smoke, the iron tang of hunger.

“You’re my remedy,” he murmured. “And you know it.”

Your magic surged, vines snapping up from the cracks in the floor like living whips. They lashed out toward him, fast as thought.

Bucky moved.

Too fast.

One moment he was in front of you, the next he was behind you, a cold hand wrapping around your wrist—not crushing, but unyielding. The vines struck empty air, splintering against stone.

Your heart slammed.

“Let go,” you hissed.

His breath ghosted over your ear. “Tell your plants to stand down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own forest,” you snapped, yanking.

He didn’t budge.

Instead, he pressed his mouth to the place just below your ear—barely a brush of lips, not a bite. A test.

Your entire body jolted.

It wasn’t fear that flooded you. It was heat, sudden and humiliating, pooling low in your belly like spilled honey.

Bucky exhaled, a sound like satisfaction.

“You smell like rain on warm earth,” he murmured. “Like flowers opening.”

“Stop,” you gasped, furious at the way your voice betrayed you.

He loosened his grip just slightly, enough that you could pull away if you truly wanted.

It was a choice.

Your magic noticed the difference. The vines stopped writhing. The thorns lowered.

You yanked your wrist free and spun to face him, breathing hard.

His eyes gleamed.

“You’re playing games,” you accused.

Bucky’s gaze flicked over you like he was cataloging every tremor, every flush, every tell. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m offering you a way to save what you came to protect.”

“You could just leave,” you said.

He shook his head. “I can’t.” Then, softer: “But I can stop killing for it.”

The sincerity in his voice hit you like a blow. Not because it was gentle—because it sounded like truth he’d hated for a long time.

You swallowed, trying to steady. “And what? You feed on me and everything’s fine?”

Bucky stepped closer, hands lifting slowly, palms open—like he was approaching a wild animal.

“You tell me,” he murmured. “Do you feel it? Your forest thinning, your heartwood fading? That’s because something is clogged. Something is trapped between life and death and it’s pulling everything into rot.”

Your stomach tightened. You had felt the rot—like a shadow under the roots, spreading.

He continued, voice low. “My curse tethers me to the heartwood. Your magic is tethered to it too. If we—if you let me feed the right way—your magic surges, cleans the rot, strengthens the forest. It’s… a circuit.”

Your breath shook.

It sounded like a spell.

Or a trap.

“You’re asking me to trust you,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze held yours, too intense. “I’m asking you to choose.”

He took another step, stopping so close you could feel the cold radiating from him.

“If you say no, I won’t touch you,” he said, and there was something almost brutal about the restraint in his voice. “I’ll leave the forest line. I’ll chain myself. I’ll starve. And your court can decide whether they want to watch their woods die anyway.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You’re cruel,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, but it wasn’t amused. “I’m honest.”

Silence stretched.

Somewhere far away, the forest sighed through the stone—wind slipping through cracks, carrying the faintest smell of pine like a plea.

You closed your eyes.

You thought of the rabbit. The fox. The child fairy whispering about her doe. You thought of the heartwood’s pulse stuttering beneath your feet.

You opened your eyes again.

“If I agree,” you said, voice tight, “you don’t bite me.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to your throat, and for a heartbeat, his hunger flashed so sharp you thought he might shatter.

Then he nodded once, slow. “No biting.”

“And you don’t take anything from me without asking,” you continued, forcing the words out. “Not a kiss. Not a touch. Not—”

His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed steady. “Agreed.”

“And the moment I say stop,” you said, “you stop.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yes.”

You held his gaze, searching for deceit, for manipulation, for anything that said he was lying.

You found hunger. You found restraint. You found something like pain.

And… something like reverence.

You swallowed.

“Then,” you whispered, barely audible, “I’ll do it.”

Bucky went very still.

Like a predator hearing prey walk willingly into its jaws.

But when he moved, it wasn’t a lunge.

It was careful.

He lifted a hand and hovered it near your cheek without touching. His eyes asked the question his mouth didn’t.

You nodded once.

His palm cupped your cheek, cool against your warmth.

The contact sent a shiver down your spine so sharp you hated yourself for it.

“You’re sure?” he murmured.

Your throat bobbed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left him, but it died quickly as his gaze dropped to your lips.

“May I?” he asked.

It shouldn’t have mattered—should’ve been a formality, a line in a bargain.

But the question landed in your chest like a promise.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Bucky kissed you.

Slow at first. Testing. Like he expected you to bite him back.

Your magic surged at the contact, petals blooming in invisible spirals around you, the air suddenly rich with summer. The candles flared brighter, bending toward you like sunflowers.

Bucky made a low sound in his throat, something almost hungry, and deepened the kiss.

His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse; not pressing, not threatening, just… feeling.

As if he couldn’t help it.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt.

He was cold and hard and everywhere his mouth moved, your body followed like it wanted to be led.

You pulled back first, breath ragged, eyes bright with anger you could barely summon anymore. “Where?”

His gaze flicked over your face. “There’s a room,” he said, voice rough. “If you want—”

“I’m not doing this on a stone floor,” you snapped, then immediately hated the shaky breath that followed. “Lead the way.”

Bucky’s mouth curved, and this time it was something dangerously close to a smile.

He offered his hand.

You stared at it like it was a trap.

Then you took it anyway.

His fingers closed around yours, cold and steady, and he guided you up the stairs.

The room was warmer than the hall, lit by a fireplace that crackled softly. Velvet curtains hung heavy over tall windows, shutting out the night. The bed was massive, draped in dark linens like spilled ink.

You hovered near the threshold, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. Of how the bargain had turned into something far more intimate than you’d expected.

Bucky let go of your hand.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t corner you. Just stood near the foot of the bed, watching you like he was waiting for you to decide he wasn’t worth the risk.

Your wings fluttered beneath your glamour, nervous.

“You can leave,” he said quietly.

You glared. “Stop saying that like you want me to.”

His eyes flickered. “I want you here,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not… I’m not taking.”

The honesty in it made your chest twist.

“You talk too much,” you muttered, stepping forward.

Bucky’s gaze followed you, sharp.

You stopped a few feet away, chin lifted. “Tell me what to do.”

His breath hitched.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

Heat crawled up your neck. Your pride flared, stubborn and bright.

“I want you to stop killing my animals,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I meant.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He exhaled, then stepped closer—still careful, still giving you space.

“I want,” you said, voice rougher than you expected, “to know you’re not lying.”

Bucky’s gaze held yours. “How do I prove it?”

Your magic stirred, responding to your emotion by sending a tendril of ivy curling up the bedpost. A bloom opened—pale blue, delicate.

“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re supposed to be monstrous.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “I can be.”

Your breath caught.

“And you still asked,” you whispered, almost accusing. “You still—”

His voice dropped. “I wanted your yes.”

Silence.

Your body hummed with need now, unmistakable. Your arousal wasn’t just desire—it was magic, blooming and thickening in your veins like nectar.

The forest wanted this. It recognized the circuit he’d spoken of, the way life and hunger could meet and turn into something that healed instead of harmed.

You hated that your body agreed.

You stepped closer, until you were within reach.

Bucky didn’t move.

Not until you lifted your hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

He was solid beneath your touch, muscles tight, his heart… quiet. Not beating like yours, but there was something there, a faint pulse of magic under the skin.

His breath shuddered.

“Undress me,” you said, voice daring.

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

“May I?” he asked, still.

“Yes,” you snapped, then softened despite yourself, quieter: “Yes.”

His hands rose slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement would spook you. He touched the edge of your dress, fingers brushing petal-silk, and your magic flared in response—flowers blooming in the air, invisible but scented, filling the room with spring.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a second like the scent hit him somewhere deep.

Then he slipped the dress from your shoulders.

The fabric slid down, pooling at your feet like shed petals. Cool air kissed your skin. Your glamour held your wings hidden, but you could feel them fluttering, agitated.

Bucky’s gaze traveled over you—slow, reverent, hungry—but he didn’t touch.

Not until you lifted your chin. “You’re staring.”

His mouth curved. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

“You’re already losing it,” you muttered.

Something broke in his expression—amusement, heat, a crack in the monster.

Then he stepped in close and kissed you again, deeper, his hands finally finding you—one on your waist, one sliding up your back, fingers splaying like he wanted to memorize you.

You gasped into his mouth.

His lips moved against yours like he was starving for more than blood.

When he pulled away, your breathing was ragged.

Bucky’s forehead rested against yours. “Tell me if I’m too much,” he murmured.

You swallowed, then forced your voice steady. “You’re not enough.”

His eyes snapped open, bright.

Your boldness made your magic surge. The ivy on the bedpost unfurled, leaves widening, blossoms opening.

Bucky’s hands tightened at your waist.

“You’re going to regret saying things like that,” he warned, voice rough.

“Try me,” you whispered.

Bucky made a low sound and lifted you.

He lifted you easily, like you weighed nothing, setting you on the bed as if you were something precious.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed, hovering over you without pressing down. His hair fell forward, dark against the firelight.

His eyes searched your face one more time. “Still yes?”

Your throat bobbed. “Yes.”

Bucky exhaled like relief and hunger had finally found the same breath.

Then he lowered his mouth to your skin.

He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The center of your chest.

Each kiss was cool at first, then warmed as your body heated around him, your magic responding by spilling more scent into the air—lush and bright, like crushed flowers.

Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you arched with a soft sound you didn’t mean to make.

His gaze flicked up, catching it.

“Pretty,” he murmured, like the word was torn out of him.

Your cheeks heated. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he asked, voice low, mouth still against your skin.

Your pride flared. “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this.”

Bucky’s laugh was a shaky exhale. “Princess,” he murmured, “I’m trying to survive it.”

His mouth moved lower, kissing your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs gently.

He paused, looking up at you like he was asking permission without words.

You swallowed, then nodded.

Bucky’s eyes darkened.

He pushed your thighs wider then slid down between them.

The first brush of his breath against you made you jolt.

“Oh,” you gasped, fingers clutching at the sheets.

Bucky’s hands settled on your hips, holding you steady like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “Do you want my mouth?”

You hated how quickly you answered.

“Yes,” you breathed. Then, louder, because your pride demanded it: “And don’t be gentle about it.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

Then his tongue touched you.

Warm, broad, devastating.

You gasped, head falling back, wings fluttering hard beneath your glamour. The room seemed to brighten as your magic surged—flowers blooming in invisible spirals, ivy racing along the bedframe like it couldn’t help itself.

Bucky made a low sound against you, like a growl turned into worship.

He licked you slowly at first, tasting, learning. Every stroke pulled a fresh wave of heat through you, your magic building like spring floodwater behind a dam.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

“Bucky,” you gasped, the name slipping out before you could stop it.

He looked up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, mouth shining.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and the sound vibrated against you, making you jerk.

You glared down at him, furious and breathless. “Don’t talk.”

His mouth curved.

Then he went back down on you like he took your command as a challenge.

He lapped harder, tongue pressing deep, then flicked against your clit with sharp precision that made you cry out. His hands tightened on your hips, keeping you open, keeping you steady as your body tried to squirm away from the intensity.

“Too much?” he asked, voice rough, but he didn’t stop—just slowed enough that the question mattered.

Your breath stuttered. “No,” you managed. “Don’t stop.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

He sucked gently—then harder—on your clit, and your whole body arched, magic surging so violently the ivy on the bedpost exploded into blossoms, petals drifting through the air like snow.

Outside the castle, far beyond the stone walls, the forest answered.

You felt it—a pulse through the roots, sudden and bright, like a heart remembering how to beat.

Bucky groaned against you, the sound nearly obscene.

“Fuck,” he rasped, like the taste of you was dragging him to the edge of something. “You’re—”

He cut himself off and buried his face again, eating you like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.

You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling, tugging without thinking.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he pressed closer.

“Good?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes—oh—”

He slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, watching your face like a hawk. You tensed, then melted as he curled them, finding the spot that made you choke on a cry.

Bucky’s mouth never stopped.

The room filled with the scent of wet petals and fresh earth. The fireplace flared, flames rising, and the candles on the dresser brightened as if your magic was pouring into everything that could hold light.

Bucky’s mark on his wrist began to glow.

You saw it when he lifted his hand briefly, the rune pulsing brighter with every sound you made.

It was feeding.

Not on your blood.

On your pleasure.

On the life blooming in you like a garden in spring.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something raw moved there—relief, hunger, awe.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “Your magic—”

“Shut up,” you whimpered, because you could barely think, let alone talk.

He huffed a laugh against your skin, then thrust his fingers deeper, curling them just right while his tongue worked you with ruthless devotion.

It hit you fast.

A wave building too high, too bright.

You tried to brace—tried to hold back, stubborn even here—but your body betrayed you, trembling under him, your magic surging in time with your heartbeat.

“Bucky,” you choked, voice breaking. “I’m—”

He hummed, approving. “Let it happen,” he murmured, and the words sounded like a spell.

You shattered.

Pleasure tore through you, sharp and white-hot, your back arching off the bed. Your magic exploded with it—flowers blooming so fast the air turned thick with scent, ivy racing along stone, leaves unfurling as if the castle itself couldn’t resist becoming alive.

And outside—

Outside, the forest pulsed.

Roots drank deep. Rot burned away in a bright, cleansing surge. The heartwood steadied, its stuttering rhythm smoothing into a strong, steady beat.

You felt it like an echo, like the land itself exhaling.

Bucky groaned against you, eyes squeezing shut, as if the surge hit him too.

When you finally came down, shaking, he slowed, easing his fingers out, mouth softening into gentler kisses that made your oversensitive body twitch.

He rested his cheek against your inner thigh for a moment, breathing hard.

Then—slowly—he looked up at you.

His eyes were brighter. Less hollow. Like something inside him had been fed properly for the first time in centuries.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You swallowed, heart still racing. “Don’t… don’t you dare act sweet now.”

His mouth curved, but there was no mockery in it. “I’m not acting,” he murmured.

He shifted up the bed, hovering over you again, his hand sliding to your cheek.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly it startled you.

Your chest tightened, anger cracking into something complicated. “You’re welcome,” you muttered, then snapped, defensive: “This doesn’t mean you own me.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked your cheek. “I don’t want to own you.”

“Liar,” you whispered, because your pride demanded it.

Bucky’s eyes held yours. “I want to keep you,” he admitted, voice low. “But only if you want to stay.”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, searching for the monster again.

You found him—hunger, darkness, predatory patience.

But you also found the restraint that had kept him from taking when he could have. The way he’d asked, every time. The way his hunger had turned into reverence instead of violence.

You hated how much that mattered.

Outside, the forest’s pulse steadied under your skin like a promise.

You swallowed. “If I stay,” you said carefully, “you stop hunting the animals.”

Bucky nodded immediately. “Yes.”

“And you don’t come near the heartwood unless I say you can.”

“Agreed.”

“And if you ever hurt my people—”

His eyes darkened. “I won’t.”

You narrowed your gaze. “That’s not an agreement.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Then, quietly: “If I ever hurt your people, you can kill me.”

The bluntness of it made your breath hitch.

You stared at him, heart thudding.

Then you scoffed, because you couldn’t let yourself be softened. “Dramatic.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who stormed into a vampire’s castle and threatened him with death.”

“Because you deserved it,” you shot back.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a kiss to your mouth—slow, sweet, startlingly tender.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured against your lips.

You glared. “You’re a parasite.”

His laugh was low. “And you’re my favorite meal.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “Bucky—”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hand sliding down your side, fingers brushing your thigh.

He pulled back, eyes heavy. “Can I?” he asked, voice rough.

Your pulse stuttered.

You could say no. You could leave. You could go back to the court and claim victory and never step foot in this castle again.

But the forest’s pulse—steady now—felt like it had wrapped itself around your spine and whispered this works.

And worse—your body wanted him.

You swallowed, voice quieter. “Yes.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

He shifted, lowering himself between your thighs again, but this time he didn’t rush. He kissed the inside of your knee first, then your thigh, then the place where your skin was still sensitive from what he’d done.

You shivered.

“You’re going to make a habit of this,” you muttered.

Bucky’s mouth brushed your skin. “I’m going to worship you,” he murmured, voice dark. “If you let me.”

Your magic flared in response, ivy curling along his arm like a caress.

“Just…” you breathed, already trembling. “Just don’t bite.”

Bucky lifted his head, eyes gleaming. “No biting,” he promised.

Then he went back to your slick heat, licking softly at first, coaxing you back open with patient, hungry devotion.

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in.

Bucky hummed, pleased.

Outside the castle, the forest breathed again—greener, brighter, alive.

And somewhere far below the roots, the rot that had been spreading for so long finally began to retreat, chased away by a circuit of hunger and magic that shouldn’t have worked—

But did.

By dawn, you lay tangled in dark sheets, skin flushed, magic humming low and satisfied beneath your ribs.

Bucky lay beside you, one arm under your head, the other—metal—resting at your waist like a careful anchor. His face was turned toward you, eyes half-lidded, watching you like you were a sunrise he didn’t deserve.

You should’ve been gone. You should’ve been racing back to the court with proof, with victory, with a story sharp enough to cut down any fairy who doubted you.

Instead, you were here.

In a vampire’s bed.

With the forest’s pulse steady under your skin like a secret.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Bucky murmured, voice sleep-rough.

You glared at him. “I don’t think loud.”

His mouth twitched. “Sure.”

You shifted, sitting up slightly. The sheets slid down, and Bucky’s gaze tracked the movement with slow, hungry appreciation.

“Don’t start,” you warned.

Bucky lifted a brow. “Start what?”

“You know what,” you snapped, though you felt heat bloom again, traitorous.

Bucky reached up, fingers brushing your hip—light, questioning.

“May I?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, but your magic curled around his wrist like a ribbon.

“Yes,” you muttered. “But if I go back to the court and they’re fighting—”

“They will be,” he said calmly.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Bucky’s gaze held yours, and something dark and amused flickered there. “They sent their princess to negotiate with a vampire.”

Your mouth opened, then shut, because he wasn’t wrong.

You huffed. “I’m going to have to lie.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked your hip. “Or tell the truth.”

You glared. “Absolutely not.”

He laughed softly, then sobered, eyes sharpening. “You should bring them proof,” he said. “Not of… this.” His hand tightened briefly, then loosened, respectful. “But of the forest. That it’s healing.”

You hesitated, because that sounded like… partnership.

Like something that might last longer than a bargain.

“You’re going to keep your word,” you said, voice careful.

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“And you’re going to stop hunting in the woods,” you pressed.

“Yes.”

“And if the curse pulls you—”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Then you come here,” he murmured. “Or I come to you. And we do it the right way.”

Heat curled low in your belly again, immediate.

You hated him.

You hated your body.

You hated that the forest felt brighter already.

You swallowed, then looked away, because you refused to let him see the way your pride was cracking.

“I’m not staying,” you lied.

Bucky’s hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs like he was memorizing you again.

“Okay,” he said, too calm.

You snapped your gaze back. “Okay?”

Bucky’s mouth curved, knowing. “You’ll be back.”

Fury flared. “You’re arrogant.”

Bucky’s eyes gleamed. “I’m hungry,” he corrected, and his hand tightened just slightly like a promise. “And you, princess… you taste like the forest learning how to live again.”

Your breath hitched.

Then you shoved his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him shift—and climbed out of bed, snatching your dress from the floor.

Bucky watched you, amused and hungry, like he had all the time in the world.

You threw the dress on, glamour snapping back into place like armor.

At the door, you paused.

Without looking back, you said, “If I hear about one more dead animal—”

“I’ll eat you instead,” Bucky called lazily.

You froze, cheeks heating.

Behind you, his laugh rumbled, warm and dangerous.

You stormed out of the room, wings trembling beneath your glamour, heart pounding with fury and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

And as you stepped back into the hall, the castle’s cold air met your skin—

But beyond the stone, beyond the black spires—

The forest pulsed, steady and strong.

Waiting for you to come back.

A/N: so, this is my ticket to hell. I posted this back in october as part of my halloween series trick or tease, which I will continue here. anyway, I wanted to give this one-shot an actual plot, so there have been some important changes since it was pretty much pwp before. disclaimer: this story contains monsterfucking, so please avoid sending weird inbox/comments (yes, it already happened). if you follow me, know that this is a recurring theme, as a matter of fact I already have two stories about orc!bucky. it's very simple: if you don't like it, don't read it. hope you'll enjoy 🖤 trick or tease masterlist

You love your apartment in a way that would probably sound ridiculous if you ever tried to explain it, because it’s not particularly beautiful, nor does it sit in some idealized neighborhood where everything feels arranged for aesthetic approval.

The building is old, long past charming. The pipes occasionally groan through the walls as though protesting against their own existence, and the floors remember every step, even when you try your best to be quiet. The kitchen is too small to ever feel fully practical, the bathroom is always slightly colder than the rest of the apartment no matter the season, and the elevator has broken down often enough that you have stopped trusting it entirely.

Objectively, there are better places to live.

And yet every evening, after a day spent among crowded sidewalks, half-finished conversations, and obligations that somehow leave you far more exhausted than they should, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen the moment the front door closes behind you.

Nobody interrupts you here. Nobody watches you with critical eyes. Nobody tries to dictate the way you exist. It’s just you.

Which is probably why you develop the habit of talking to yourself once you step inside.

It’s not something you ever decided to do, it simply followed you from earlier versions of your life. At first it was practical, a way of sorting out stress and untangling thoughts that felt too messy to leave trapped in your head, but over time it became part of who you are.

“Stark scheduled five meetings today.” You drop your keys on the counter. “New record.”

You kick off your shoes, already moving towards the fridge for some water.

“I swear he finds some sick pleasure in wasting everyone’s time.”

You never expect a response, of course, but carry on with the small rituals of the evening while the walls quietly absorb your voice.

Ultimately, you stop keeping tabs of how often it happens, because you talk while cooking, cleaning, and taking showers. You comment out loud while scrolling through your phone and revisit past conversations while folding laundry. Even when sitting on the couch at the end of a long day, you debate whether you’re too tired to start anything meaningful or too restless to do nothing at all, as if the pillows could answer back.

Still, there are moments—usually late at night—when the absence of another human being becomes harder to ignore. A small ache settles in your chest at the realization that entire days can pass without anyone else seeing them. Your thoughts, your victories, the countless insignificant moments that make up a life... all of them exist only inside your own memory.

The feeling never stays for long though: somewhere along the way, you just learned how to be content with your own company.

Most of your friends live hours away now, scattered across different cities and different lives, and trying to keep those connections alive feels mortifying when it becomes clear you’re not worth the effort.

Making new ones has never been any easier. Too many people seem worn down by disappointment, and retreating into themselves feels safer than risking another let-down. The rest treat every relationship like a negotiation, weighing what can be gained from it before deciding how much of themselves they are willing to offer.

So you fall back into your routine, and the apartment remains your favorite place, where you spend most of your time.

However, the feeling is not one-sided, because somewhere within the walls and foundations, something has begun, very slowly, to consider you a constant.

It has occupied the building for longer than any human memory can account for.

Long before you arrived. Long before the current structure of rooms and hallways. Not trapped within it, or bound in any conventional sense, but present like a memory inside a familiar object, woven through walls and doorframes and the quiet space between moments.

For centuries, humans were irrelevant.

They came and went, briefly altering the surface of things without ever touching what lay beneath. The Entity never thought of them as individuals, but as noise. Temporary disturbance that always faded back into silence.

Until you.

At first, you are nothing exceptional. Just another tenant. A fragile arrangement of blood and flesh moving through a structure that has already forgotten most of what it has held. You unpack and settle into your routines.

And then you start talking.

Constantly.

As though silence is something you have to keep at bay to stay sane.

And that’s what catches its attention. At first, it assumes you are speaking to someone outside its perception, but there is no other presence, no other voice.

Only you.

So it begins to assume the words are meant for the space itself, for the apartment as a whole—for the being that chose its shadows as a place to rest.

The conclusion is obvious.

You are talking to it.

The Entity initially listens passively. Your voice is just another sound among many, no more important than the groan of old pipes or the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows.

But as you keep talking, your voice stops blending into the background.

It learns your rhythms before it understands why they matter: the time you come home; the way your footsteps change depending on fatigue; the subtle differences between your frustrated sighs and your tired one. The melody of your happiness and the miserable sound of your sorrow.

The details gather one by one without purpose.

And somewhere along the way, it stops thinking of you as transient.

The first changes are small. A temperature fluctuation in your room settles earlier in the evening than it used to. A recurring fault in the elevator that keeps waking you up in the middle of the night doesn’t return. A light that hesitated before turning on now responds immediately.

None of it is noticeable enough to make you suspicious. Until the reason behind these adjustments changes drastically.

In its memory, humans have always approached beings like it through extremes.

They arrive trembling with desperation that melts into obsession, or rigid with fear that collapses into obedience. Their speech grows cautious, as though a single wrong word might invite disaster. Even when they pretend otherwise, there is always an ugly tilt beneath their requests: ambition, hunger, greed.

But you only fill rooms with thoughts that have nowhere else to go.

You complain about a man named Tony scheduling meetings throughout the day as though he has personal authority over the calendar. You debate dinner choices—usually pizza or sushi—because the outcome might alter your mood for the rest of the night. You spend an entire evening trying to figure out why a couple from your hometown broke up after everyone swore they’d end up married.

And throughout your little monologues, your voice never once bends toward reverence. It never tightens into fear.

And that becomes difficult to grasp.

Over time, those small routines become expected. And expectation creates its own kind of absence.

The first few times you leave for longer than usual, the apartment feels incomplete. Not empty, exactly, but quieter. The space remains the same, yet something about it feels wrong without you.

The conclusion it reaches is simple: if you are choosing to spend more time elsewhere, then the apartment must be failing you in some way. From that point on, every imperfection becomes unacceptable, and small inconsistencies are often corrected before they even have the chance to become problems at all.

Since you are completely unaware that something has started arranging the world around you, the changes continue without question.

You keep talking the way you always do, filling the apartment with things that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but not to the creature listening. You never thank it. Never ask for anything specific, or demand more. You simply exist inside a space that now quietly takes care of itself according to your comfort.

The simplicity of that still confuses it. The Entity has been worshipped before, feared, sought out for power... But no one has ever treated it like part of their daily life. Like an equal.

Your voice is familiar and reliable as you become its Polaris, the fixed point by which the rest of the world is measured.

The Entity has never concerned itself with anything beyond its own existence, most things are allowed to fade.

Anything connected to you is not.

When you come back that evening, something is different. 

You move through your usual routine after stepping inside, loosening your shoulders and mumbling softly under your breath. Yet there is something unfamiliar that clings to the edges of your presence. It doesn’t belong to the apartment, and because of that, it draws its curiosity at once. 

Humans carry traces of the outside world with them all the time: scents, particles, remnants of places and people. Most disappear quickly enough to be forgotten.

But this one doesn’t leave. It stays attached to you in a way that makes it hard to dismiss, fixed on a specific point of contact. Still, you hang up your coat, set down your bag, and slip off your heels with a relieved sigh. There is no hesitation in your movements.

Something outside its space touched you and was allowed to settle. And it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.

That unpleasant realization manifests like the first thunder announcing an imminent storm.

The air changes, pressure building ominously through the room enough to alter the flow of oxygen.

You notice it a few seconds later, your breathing feeling slightly more restricted, your chest tightening in a way that is easy to misread as fatigue from the day. You pause, one hand briefly touching your chest as if checking whether something inside your body isn’t working properly.

Frowning in confusion, you glance around the apartment before sprinting to the window to push it open, letting the crisp night air spill inside.

The suffocating feeling eases a little, but the Entity’s rage doesn’t.

The air turns clammy enough to make your skin prickle. Out of the corner of your eye, the shadows along the edges of the room grow longer, creeping farther than they should. The impression vanishes as soon as your head makes a sharp turn toward the wall, leaving you with a kind of discomfort that will haunt your sleep for the rest of the night.

You were still its when you left this space, but something else got close enough to interfere with that.

Whatever that presence was, it shouldn’t have been near you at all.

The changes start revealing themselves later, in moments that seem insignificant at the time.

You take a shower every morning—it automatically folds into your routine without much attention, the same way you sit on the edge of the bed with a towel around your body and half-awake eyes, letting the day assemble itself around you in slow pieces.

You turn on the tap and let the water warm up while you brush your teeth and check your phone. Sometimes you even have time to tidy up your room a little.

But one day you find yourself rinsing your face while the mirror is already beginning to fog. You dismiss it as temporary luck and keep going through the same motions the next day.

And still, it keeps happening.

A few days later, you’re standing in your bedroom half-dressed and with an unexpected ten extra minutes before work, trying and failing to understand where they came from.

Other weird things follow, like the bedroom door no longer sticking when it’s too humid. Then, the kitchen cabinet that always needed an extra push starts closing smoothly, and the draft from the living room window stops bothering you entirely.

There is an accumulation of small inconsistencies that leaves you with the subtle impression that the apartment and your recollection of it are no longer perfectly aligned, to the point that you start wondering if the problem is you.

Maybe you’re becoming forgetful, distracted... The thought never settles into genuine panic, but it lingers just long enough to leave a sour taste behind.

A quiet Friday night finds you stretched on the couch with the television murmuring in the background, when an email from Tony lands in your inbox. It marks yet another round of revisions of your presentation despite the fact that this is already the fourth time you have edited it.

For a moment you simply stare deadpan at the screen, the frustration that has been building all week finally manifesting with a sharp exhale.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony.”

“I could ensure he never troubles you again.”

The voice comes so quickly after your words that your brain just accepts it without question. Then, your limbs still at once at the realization. Slowly, you lift your head and look around the apartment.

The television still works. The kitchen is empty. The hallway is exactly where it should be.

You frown at it for another moment before forcing yourself to exhale.

Stress.

You imagined it.

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the show.

“Well?”

This time you sit up abruptly, confusion sharpening into alarm. 

“What the fuck?” You mumble, because whatever fragile explanation you were building in your head collapses at once.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you scramble to stand, your heart hammering against your ribs while your gaze darts frantically around the open space.

“Is someone here?”

There is a pause before the voice answers—calm, almost unaffected by your agitation.

“I am not visible at the moment.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“What does that even mean?”

“I am in the shadows,” it continues. “I am everywhere.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it comes out strangled.

“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Sure.”

You quickly check the hallway and then turn back again, trying to locate any possible source that could explain the voice seemingly coming from the inside of the apartment. When you can’t find anything out of the ordinary, your body instantly angles towards the couch, one of your arms already stretched out to get your phone and call someone.

Police. Your neighbor. Anyone...

But your fingers barely brush the object before it slides out of reach.

You freeze.

“No.” You whisper, because now your brain is splitting between panic and denial.

You glance at the device like it has personally betrayed you.

“This is insane,” you say, unconsciously backing up, your chest heaving dangerously fast. “This is fucking insane.”

“He can be removed.” The voice states with confidence.

You shake your head sharply.

“What does that even mean? And what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

“I have been here for a long time.”

“What?” Your stomach tightens as you take another step back, shaking your head again like that will be enough to reset reality.

“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the police.” You threaten more firmly this time, even if the trembling in your voice refuses to fade.

The air shifts at once, suffocating in its heaviness.

“Do not dare to call me an intruder.”

Until now, despite everything, some stubborn part of your brain had been trying to force this situation into a shape that made sense—a prank, a squatter, even a neighbor with far too much free time.

Something explainable.

Human.

“I have always been here.”

The words settle like a boulder on your chest.

A chill crawls down your spine.

Nothing around you changes: the walls are still standing, the lights are still on, and the floor is not splitting open beneath your feet. Yet your attention is obsessing over every neglected corner. On the narrow seam where two walls meet. On the vent above the kitchen doorway. On the faint cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.

Places you have never paid attention to before.

Places that now feel claimed.

You have lived here for years, slept, eaten, cried... Spent entire weekends doing absolutely nothing. And the thought that something might have been present through all of it sends a fresh wave of nausea through your body.

That’s enough for you to notice the change in your breathing. Each raise of your chest feels slightly shallower than the last, your lungs stinging as they instinctively prepare for a danger your eyes cannot see.

“Reality parts for me. I have drifted through the birth of galaxies, swallowed storms of time, watched empires swell and rot. Your world? An insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe. Your species? Flimsier than smoke. You puny humans only know how to crawl from the mud to devour each other over shallow trinkets and territory.”

You swallow thickly, flinching hard as your back brushes against the wall close to the front door.

You don’t even remember moving.

“Okay,” you mumble, your voice still uneven. “Someone’s a little too full of themself.”

A thunderous roar crashes through your skull, pain exploding behind your eyes so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you double over, your body folding in on itself before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your head, fingers digging into the skin of your temples as your eyes squeeze shut against the pounding agony.

“I only speak the truth. I am eternal, and your defiance is inconvenient. Remember, human: if I wish to, I could bend you into nothingness before your heart finishes its next beat.”

The temperature of the room drops below zero. Biting cold wraps around you so viciously that it feels as though warmth has been erased from existence.

A violent shiver runs through you, and your arms promptly wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to make yourself smaller, safer, somehow less exposed to its wrath.

The threat itself should sound ridiculous, the sort of thing a comic book villain would say before getting punched through a building. Yet what’s frightening is the certainty burning beneath its voice.

An uncomfortable, deafening silence settles over the room, before the voice comes back quieter—almost timid.

“I have frightened you.” It sighs wearily. “Your fear is bitter. Forgive me. I often forget how small your hearts are, how fragile your existence can be.”

The cold begins to retreat, slowly loosening its grip on your body until you can feel your fingers again. The pressure squeezing your throat eases with it, and you quickly draw in a breath, gasping as if you have been forced under water.

You don’t answer. Instead your eyes close briefly, and inside your head you keep repeating that this is only a dream.

It has to be.

Dreams can be terrifying.

Dreams can feel real.

Dreams can make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“I apologize. I am not used to... converse with humans.”

The explanation is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Sure, people do that too. They make themselves louder and hostile, more intimidating. They show their teeth because they are afraid to get bitten first.

But it’s difficult to be terrified of something while simultaneously understanding it.

“I would not harm another being, unless strictly necessary. Like Tony.”

There is a beat of silence after that, the kind that feels like waiting for a clarification.

Your eyelids slowly flutter open.

“Tony?” Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Yes.”

Your stomach drops. “I—Tony is my boss.”

“I am aware.”

That answer does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. Still, a weak, tired chuckle falls from your lips, the sound still sitting on the edge of disbelief.

“Well,” your voice wavers. “Next time you want to show off, try to be a little less... intense.”

There is a pause that lasts just long enough to feel like the conversation might actually end there.

“I will…” It rumbles. “Little star.”

You blink.

For a moment you genuinely wonder whether you heard it correctly. Of all the things it could have said, that had not even crossed your mind as a possibility.

“What?” You ask uncertainly.

“You are smaller than me,” it starts calmly. “And you shine the brightest when surrounded by darkness.”

The words hit you like a punch in the stomach, because that name feels like it was always meant for you—like this weird creature has spent some unknowable amount of time observing the universe until it reached the conclusion that you deserved your own little place inside it.

“And so you just… decided to call me that?” You say slowly, staring blankly at the wall.

“Yes.”

The answer arrives with complete confidence.

Your eyes scan the space again: the walls are still up, the furniture remains exactly where you left it, the front door is only a few feet away if you decide to make a run for it. However, now they all sit beside the crushing knowledge that you have never been truly alone in what you considered your safe haven.

And yet, despite the trembling in your hands and the excruciating headache, the apartment has never felt this warm.

After that night, the voice doesn’t appear on a schedule you can trace, and it doesn’t behave like something that interrupts your life so much as something that exists alongside you, its presence filling the apartment as naturally as sunlight through an open window.

Eventually you resign yourself to the fact that if this is real, then it has always been real. The Entity has existed beyond the edges of your perception all along, tucked into the shadows while you moved through your life unaware.

You are not discovering something new. You are simply learning how to share your home with a creature whose ego is, unfortunately, backed by evidence.

Strangely, that realization no longer feels like you’re losing your sanity. Every appearance still sends a jolt through you though, even when you start anticipating it. The jolts finally become sighs, the sighs fade into pauses... And then, somehow, they turn into full conversations.

“Allow me to intervene.”

The words emerge from nowhere and everywhere at once, threading through the sound of running water.

Your reaction is calmer than it would have been a month ago.

Pausing with a glass still slippery beneath layers of soap, you glance at the counter.

A deep exhale escapes your nose. “That’s not what I meant when I said Pierce should stop being an asshole.”

The silence that follows feels thoughtful.

“He deserves it.”

The certainty in its tone immediately tells you that this conversation is going to leave you with a migraine.

You slowly set the glass aside and reach for another.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He repeatedly enters the apartments without warning despite causing distress to their occupants. He ignores maintenance requests. He raises the rent while refusing to fix anything. He is unpleasant.” It growls at last.

You stare at the sink deadpan, because the worst part is that none of those observations are technically wrong.

“You still don’t get to decide what happens to my landlord.”

“You have developed a habit of assuming the worst about me, little star.” The response almost sounds offended.

“Last week you wanted to fold the mail carrier into another dimension because he bent one of my packages.”

“He damaged your property.”

“He dropped it because he nearly tripped carrying three other boxes.” You remark tiredly.

“Then he accepted more than he was capable of transporting!” It snaps.

Your eyes close, and for a moment you simply stand there with your hands submerged in warm water, wondering whether anyone else in human history has ever had to explain proportional responses to a cosmic entity living inside their apartment walls.

“You can’t solve everything with violence.”

“At least my ways are effective.”

The tone is so childish that something dangerously close to a laugh threatens to escape you. You barely suppress it, unwilling to give the Entity the satisfaction.

The last thing you want is to encourage it.

“You’re missing the point.” You sigh.

“And your landlord is disruptive.” It retorts, returning to the original topic with persistence. “I remove disruption.”

A month ago, that statement would have sent ice flooding through your veins, now it makes you tired. Concerned, certainly; still mildly horrified. But mostly tired.

You noticed pretty quickly that the creature inhabiting the darkness has apparently divided existence into two simple categories: things that bring you comfort, and things that do not.

And whenever something falls into the second category, it immediately begins offering solutions.

Usually terrible ones.

You still can’t fully comprehend what it is and what it wants from you, yet you don’t reject it anymore, choosing instead to adjust yourself around it the same way people learn to coexist with eccentric roommates, noisy plumbing, or old neighbors with weird habits. But speaking more carefully than you used to has become necessary. Not because you are afraid of being overheard—you passed that stage weeks ago—but because the Entity is always listening, hungrily waiting for the slightest excuse to make itself useful.

The first time you muttered that a coworker was making you want to disappear, it was so concerned that it spent thirty minutes trying to understand whether your desire to “cease existing” was literal. Then you made the mistake of joking about your neighbor’s barking dog, and it calmly informed you that silence could be arranged...

Spending hours explaining hyperbole to a being older than galaxies had not gone particularly well, so now you think twice before speaking. You also avoid idle threats and clarify complains before they can be interpreted as instructions.

In addition to not knowing how human language works, it becomes clear that the Entity also doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Or perhaps it understands it perfectly well and simply sees no reason to respect it.

You are still trying to determine which possibility is worse.

Thursday has been peaceful so far. Tony hasn’t started any new scandal that requires damage control, and Pierce hasn’t called asking for more money to deal with the umpteenth gas leak.

Yet by the time you finally make it home, exhaustion sits heavily in your muscles—the kind that accumulates steadily over hours spent hunched over a desk, attending meetings that should not exist and dealing with your boss’ particular talent for creating problems out of nothing.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside.

After abandoning your heels somewhere near the entrance, you drag yourself to the bedroom with the same determination of someone whose social battery has been completely annihilated. All you want is to change into something comfortable, eat whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare, and spend the rest of the evening watching some trashy reality show.

The peaceful silence follows you as you set your bag on the floor and begin pulling your blouse over your head.

“This level of exhaustion is unacceptable.”

A startled yelp escapes your lips as you jerk backwards, immediately yanking the blouse back down.

For one humiliating moment, you are left standing in the middle of the room, tangled in fabric.

“Jesus Christ.” Your hand presses against your sternum.

The apartment remains perfectly calm.

“You scared me.”

“I did not intend to.”

“Yeah, I know.” You let out a weary sigh. “You never intend to.”

Finally pulling the blouse off, you throw it toward the laundry basket with significantly more force than necessary.

The Entity says nothing for what feels like forever, so your eyes narrow at a random corner.

“Were you just... watching me?”

The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably.

“You returned home forty-three minutes later than usual. You removed your shoes after entering, yet consumed no food despite having done so at the same time during the last three days. And your shoulders have remained incredibly tense since you arrived.”

You promptly let them relax, suddenly self-conscious of your posture.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It was.” The creature sounds genuinely puzzled. “You asked whether I was observing you.”

Technically, that’s a logical answer, but it doesn’t make having a pair of monstrous eyes tracking your every movement with unwavering attention any less unsettling.

“You really keep track of all that?” You eventually ask, almost shyly.

“My attention is always upon you.”

The response arrives with such simple certainty that it makes the next words die on your tongue, leaving you frozen in the middle of your bedroom.

This thing has existed for an amount of time you cannot begin to comprehend. It notices things. It remembers things. It pays attention in a way that humans generally do not. And the reminder sends a strange heat crawling beneath your skin.

Suddenly, you are being hit with a feeling of disquiet at being so exposed.

“He should not be allowed to exhaust you like this.”

“No.” It falls from your lips before the conversation can continue.

“No?”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

“You cannot know what I am thinking.”

“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with taking care of Tony?” You mock its gravelly voice.

Another pause.

“You know me so well.” It sounds almost pleased.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you rub a hand over your face.

“Please, stop trying to find a reason to kill my boss.”

“I was not offering to kill him.”

Relief immediately floods your chest.

“Oh.” You tilt your head, positively surprised.

Maybe all those evenings spent teaching the Entity how to behave more like a human and less like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are finally paying off.

“I would only harm him.”

Your face falls instantly.

“God, can you just stop talking?”

“It is significantly better.”

“No.”

“It is objectively better.”

You let out a long groan, covering your face with both hands.

“Why do you always bring him up?”

“I was simply stating an observation.”

You scoff, removing your jewelry with far more energy than the action itself requires. “You always make observations right before suggesting violence.”

“I do not always suggest violence.”

The statement is delivered with enough dignity that you almost believe it.

“You suggested throwing an officer into the ocean because he gave me a ticket.”

“He was incorrect.”

Your eyes close in irritation. “You suggested relocating my upstairs neighbor because she vacuumed once at six in the morning.”

“Sunday is the only day you are permitted to sleep in.”

“You spent three days trying to convince me my internet provider is a hostile entity.” Your voice gradually rises, and the apartment slips into complete silence.

“Little star,” the Entity starts slowly. “The service they provide is unacceptable.”

You curse the day you decided to explain how technology and the internet work to this relentless, stubborn creature.

“That’s not the point.” You say through clenched teeth.

The room grows quiet again and you know it is genuinely attempting to understand something that refuses to fit within its understanding of reality.

When it speaks again, the question sounds sincere.

“Why is Tony different?”

You let your head fall back with a sigh.

As much as its insistence and anger management issues drive you insane, you always need to remind yourself it is truly interested in how your mind works.

“He isn’t different,” the words are no louder than a murmur, your body sagging slightly as irritation drains away. “People are just allowed to be annoying. That’s part of the human experience.”

You can practically feel the disagreement radiating off the walls.

“That seems inefficient.” It frets.

A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, still low but entirely genuine.

“Maybe it is.” You shrug.

“You dedicate a surprising degree of creativity to insulting him.”

“Because he frustrates me.”

“He makes you unhappy.”

“Hm, sometimes.” You nod.

“He increases your stress.”

“Yes.”

“You dread interacting with him.”

You hesitate for a second. “Well, only when he sends me to drag angry women out of his penthouse at nine in the morning.”

“Then I fail to understand why removing the problem is unacceptable.”

There it is—the same impossible logic it always returns to.

Everything else stops mattering the moment it involves you, so when something upsets you, it should be immediately addressed. The conclusion is predictable by now: anything causing you discomfort simply shouldn’t be allowed to continue existing. That’s the entire structure of its reasoning, there is no room for improvement or compromise.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

Then, very carefully, as though explaining something to a particularly intelligent but catastrophically misguided dog, “Harming my boss won’t fix my anxiety. And you really need to stop with the whole splitting people into categories based on whether they annoy me or not.”

The silence lingers, but you have learned enough about the creature by now to recognize when it is really considering your words.

“There are additional categories?”

This time you cannot help it—you burst out laughing, the sound brightening the room, loud and alive.

“Yes, you silly creature.” You breathe out, still smiling. “There are additional categories.”

Somewhere within the walls, the Entity appears to spend the rest of the night reevaluating its understanding of interpersonal conflict. You are not entirely sure the lesson will stick. Still, it feels like progress.

When your eyes snap open, the frantic pounding of your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. You find yourself disoriented, small but stubborn fragments of the nightmare still clinging to you.

There was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, doors opening one after another into empty darkness, and the overwhelming certainty that something was following just out of sight. The details fade almost immediately, but the fear lingers heavy in your chest.

“You are not alone.”

The rumbling voice cuts through the eerie silence out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

Your body goes completely still as for one awful second, fantasy and reality blur together. Then, fear shifts into exasperation so quickly it makes you faintly nauseous.

“It was a dream.” You whisper to yourself, pressing a hand over your eyes.

“Yes.” The answer comes immediately.

You let out a long breath, instinctively reaching for the lamp on your nightstand. Light has always helped after bad dreams. It gives your eyes something solid to land on so you can breathe a little easier; something ordinary enough to remind you that whatever was haunting you belonged to the deepest pits of your unconsciousness.

Before your fingers can touch the switch though, the temperature in the room drops slightly and the lamp clicks on by itself. You stare at it blankly, before glancing up at the ceiling.

“Have you been in my bedroom this whole time?” 

When the answer arrives, it carries a note of confusion.

“I am always with you.”

You instinctively pull the sheets closer around yourself.

“Hm, not really comforting.”

“I simply illuminated the room.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” The words come out feebly, as though they were meant just for you.

The pensive silence that follows suggests it is trying to work out what you meant anyway. Eventually, it steers the conversation towards something it deems far more important than your discomfort at its incessant hovering.

“You were in distress.”

A chill crawls across your skin despite the warmth of the blankets.

“It was just a dream.” You dismiss as your eyes drop to your quilt.

“You have experienced similar dreams repeatedly.”

“What do you mean repeatedly?” You instantly look up.

“You have experienced seven variations of the same fear pattern within the last month.”

You frown at the wall in front of you.

“You remember them all?”

“Of course.”

You are not entirely sure what unsettles you more: the fact that the Entity has somehow found its way into your dreams, or the fact that it has categorized them so analytically.

“It was a nightmare.” You swallow eventually.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have to do anything about it.”

“I disagree.”

Of course it does.

You rub your eyes in exhaustion. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while.”

“You are not everyone. I do not care about everyone.” The word is thrown out in disgust. “And you were terrified, that’s enough for me to intervene.”

Your head falls back against the headrest with a dull noise. “It wasn’t real.”

“It still scared you.” It insists.

The simple logic behind its reasoning is incredibly annoying, because there is no easy way to argue with it. The distinction between reality and dreams seems irrelevant to a higher entity—fear is still fear.

“What was chasing you?”

You immediately regret answering any questions at all, hoping that lying on your side will implicitly communicate the conversation is over.

“Nothing.”

“What was behind the door?”

“Nothing.”

“Your heartbeat was dangerously fast when you remembered.”

You pull the blanket higher and settle deeper into the mattress, ready to ignore it.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

The response is so quick your eyelids flutter open again.

The Entity releases a sigh. “You return home exhausted. You experience distress during sleep, and it lingers long after you wake up. I do not understand why you insist these things are insignificant.”

The sincerity behind its words makes it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.

You know it’s not asking out of mere curiosity, or to eventually use your own fears against you for some hidden purpose. It genuinely cares about you, but not in any way that gives you space from it. Its attention doesn’t arrive and withdraw; it persists, clinging to you with a kind of obsessive inevitability. It feels less like being observed and more like being suffocated—a desperate grip around your throat that won’t loosen even when you need oxygen.

That attention has begun to register as pressure inside your nervous system, a second current running beneath your own reactions. As though it is already anticipating where you will move, what you will feel, what will unsettle you... and meeting you halfway.

Under the apparent reverence lies something far more obstinate: a deep, unwavering hunger to possess you. It craves to reach past what you can recognize as yourself, following you beneath language, control, and into the parts of you where emotion arises before it becomes yours to name—until even the boundary between what you truly feel and what you want to show is blurred.

“Because not everything needs to be fixed.” You ultimately sigh.

“Why?”

Your eyes close in resignation at the question that the Entity keeps asking since manifesting itself to you. It sounds so plain and obvious until you try to look for an answer that actually makes sense, devoid of useless excuses.

“Because sometimes people are just tired, and that can cause bad dreams. It’s called stress and it’s normal.”

The quiet that follows stretches long enough that you hope the conversation has finally reached an end.

“What was behind the door?”

You let out a groan. “Jesus Christ.”

“Little star—”

“Goodnight.” You exclaim loudly enough to cut directly across whatever question was coming next.

Several seconds pass and your body gradually melts against the mattress, your chest finally deflating with a relieved sigh.

“Goodnight.”

A pause follows.

“I am always here. You may inform me if the dream returns.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillow.

“I won’t.” It comes out muffled.

“I would still like to know.”

You gesture blindly toward the ceiling.

“Goodnight.”

The lamp switches itself off.

Several days pass after the nightmare conversation without incident, which should probably be reassuring. Instead, it leaves you vaguely suspicious, because you have already learned that silence doesn’t necessarily mean absence. More often than not, it simply means the Entity has decided to not comment on whatever it is currently observing.

You are cooking dinner when it manifests. Or well, attempting to cook dinner, which is definitely not the same thing. The recipe is open on your phone, and the ingredients are technically correct. Whether the final result will be edible remains to be seen.

The water has finally begun to boil and you are standing in front of the stove trying to remember whether the smoked salmon goes in before or after the tomato sauce, when the familiar baritone drifts through the kitchen as if commenting on the weather.

“You should not consume that.” It throws off-handedly.

You stop stirring altogether, your eyes still fixed on the sauce before slowly turning to the empty kitchen.

“What?”

“The nutritional value is poor.”

You can only blink. Being criticized by an ancient being for your dinner choices... Not everyone gets to put that on their résumé.

“You don’t even eat.”

“Correct.”

“Then how do you know what’s good for me?” You squint accusingly.

“I have observed your species.”

The spoon returns to the pan and you continue stirring, determined to not encourage it. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working after the third day.

“You consume insufficient vegetables.”

A sigh escapes you. “Stop.”

“It is the truth.”

“We’re not having this discussion now.”

“You purchased zucchini and carrots three days ago and have yet to consume them.”

Your wrist stills. Scarily slowly, you lower the utensil onto the spoon rest, and look at the wall with challenge burning hot in your eyes.

“You know what’s concerning about that sentence?” You cross your arms to your chest.

“The fact that you know when I bought them.”

“You not consuming the vegetables.” It speaks over you.

“Oh my God,” you snap as you sharply turn toward the empty kitchen. “Are you my roommate and nutritionist now?”

Silence follows, and you hope it has finally run out of opinions.

“Roommate is… acceptable classification.”

You freeze at its reply, because it suddenly dawns on you the mistake you just made. You decide to play it cool though, and turn back to the pan to resume stirring, your movements now a little more sluggish than before.

“That wasn’t an invitation, by the way.” You clear your throat awkwardly after a while.

No response comes. At least, not verbally. The flame beneath the pan flares a little higher before settling again, not enough to affect the cooking but just enough to feel deliberate.

You frown at it, annoyed at the fact that this Lord of the Darkness-wannabe officially considers itself a member of the household now, and you are the only one to blame for that.

“You should also sleep more.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

The conversation had been going so well.

“I sleep plenty.” You argue.

“You averaged five hours and forty-one minutes over the last seven days.”

The spoon nearly slips from your hand.

“Can you stop tracking my sleeping habits?” Your voice drips with indignation. 

“You are tired.” It retorts at once. “Tired humans make poorer dietary decisions.”

“Who isn’t in this day and age?”

“Well, you are more tired than most people.” It barks back, agitated.

You are beginning to suspect that the Entity’s only hobby is monitoring your wellbeing with a level of dedication that borders on the absurd—and absolutely no sense of when to mind its own business.

Maybe you should introduce it to birdwatching next.

It becomes obvious that it also reacts to the people surrounding you. Not in anything you could immediately point to as proof, but small inconveniences cluster around certain names, voices, intrusions that are not physically present in the apartment and yet somehow seem to have been catalogued all the same.

At first you tell yourself it must be a series of coincidences.

A delayed train to go back home for Thanksgiving, forcing you to text your family that you won’t make it. A rooftop bar reservation that gets cancelled just as you’re getting ready to leave—the kind of place you were going to with old friends who insisted it was “important to catch up properly.” Plans with people you actually like quietly unraveling at the edges, and conversations turning into vague reschedules that never settle into anything concrete, leaving your evenings empty at home.

The pattern becomes harder to ignore.

You finally connect the dots thanks to Steve.

You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, nothing serious yet, though that feels less and less accurate when your evenings keep turning into phone calls that stretch far longer than either of you originally intended.

It’s late in the afternoon and you are talking to him while tidying the living room, the conversation drifting effortlessly as you gradually stop dusting and end up leaning against the couch, your cheeks hurting from how much you have been smiling.

Dating comes easy with someone as sweet and kind as Steve. You always feel a little lighter after spending time with him.

Perhaps that’s why he becomes an obstacle to remove.

“... and then she told me I should apologize to her cat.”

You chuckle. “What? Why?”

“Apparently me stating I have a dog offended him.”

After your laugh fades, your mouth parts to answer with a story of your own about disastrous first dates, when the call abruptly ends.

It doesn’t crackle, it simply cuts off. One moment Steve is speaking, the next there is silence.

You check the screen with astonishment written all over your face, and sure enough there is only your wallpaper staring back at you.

Your stomach twists with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling.

Slowly, you lower the phone, and that’s when it registers that the apartment has been quiet for a while.

Too quiet.

“That puny boy is annoying.”

Your brow lifts skeptically. Steve Rogers is many things, but “puny boy” is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when talking about him. The man has shoulders that deserve their own zip code.

You huff out a weary breath. “What did you do this time?”

“I ended the interaction.”

The answer is tinted with poorly concealed smugness, not a single attempt to hide what it has done—and it’s that stupid brashness wrapped in the arrogant conviction of always being right, that makes fury flare in your chest.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

“I noticed.” You smile caustically. “Care are to explain why?”

“The call had continued long beyond necessity.”

The scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Since when do you decide what is necessary in my relationships?”

“The puny human was occupying your attention.”

“We were having a conversation.” You state tartly.

“You have many conversations.”

“So what?”

“They occur too frequently.”

You blink at the wall, utterly flabbergasted by its impudence.

“Are you kidding me?” You chuckle drily, no traces of humor in it. “You were jealous of Steve and—and your solution was to violate my privacy and go through my fucking phone?”

Your arms rise in a gesture of helpless disbelief, only to drop again by your sides a second later. “What are you? Six?”

“He occupies a disproportionate amount of your time.”

“I like him.” You fire back.

“He is temporary.”

The answer comes out as a roar that makes you flinch instantly. Anger evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling beneath your ribs.

“He is temporary.” The Entity repeats calmly this time, as if the statement has already been settled rather than offered for discussion. “You have known him for weeks.”

There is a brief pause before it continues—still unhurried, still confident in its presumption.

“I have known you longer.”

The words are final in a way that doesn’t invite contradiction.

The dreadful realization that this fragile boundary between you had been crumbling day after day without you noticing makes it impossible to keep your voice steady.

“You don’t get to decide who matters to me.”

The apartment shifts—not physically, or visibly—but it feels like the air has suddenly reoriented toward the sound of your voice.

“I do not decide who matters to you.” 

A pause follows, strategic.

“I only decide what enters my domain.”

The apartment is not a place it inhabits, but a condition that defines what can be present within it. And for the first time, the implication is not about Steve at all, or any of the other people the Entity has quietly pushed to the edges of your life.

It’s about you.

“This apartment is not your domain.” You swallow, forcing the trembling out of your words.

“It contains you.”

Your stomach churns so harshly you feel like vomiting at how completely unremarkable the Entity seems to find its reasoning.

There is something profoundly unsettling about its inability to separate you from the spaces you occupy, the people you interact with, or the things that demand your attention. Everything collapses into the same category, tied together by the simple fact that it exists in relation to you, and therefore falls under the quiet assumption that it has the right to interfere.

And judging by the calm confidence in its voice, it’s a belief that has been festering in the background for a very long time, undisturbed. As though the boundary between what it assumes and what you are has never been particularly solid to begin with.

Your grip on the phone hardens until your fingers ache against its hard edges.

“You can’t sabotage every relationship I have.” 

“That assumes they were ever stable to begin with.”

There was never anything meaningful enough to protect in the first place, only shifting connections that held for a while or failed on their own terms. And yet your life has been reshaped so nothing ever keeps you away for long, every little detail arranged so the roots of its sick devotion can sink deeper and deeper into your existence until eventually you’ll stop leaving.

You are living your days bounded by a mere, temporary concession of freedom, because the Entity has already gathered what serves its purpose.

The rest is nothing but a speck of dust meant to aimlessly wander across the vastness of the universe.

It’s a system that you reject but now find yourself placed inside regardless. The center of it all.

It’s the day you meet with Wanda that you really understand how deep the Entity’s visceral attachment to you goes.

Your friend comes over on a Saturday afternoon after several weeks of failed attempts to meet up. The visit is long overdue, and you spend most of it moving between rooms while talking about work, mutual friends’ life updates, and whatever gossip has accumulated since the last time you saw each other.

For the first hour everything feels normal enough that you almost forget about the presence woven through the concrete. You are halfway through making coffee when the conversation stops abruptly. At first you assume Wanda is checking her phone, but the silence feels unnatural.

When you step out of the kitchen, you find her standing near the entrance with an expression you cannot immediately identify.

She is confused, almost distracted—the way people look when they walk into a room with purpose only to forget why.

“Wanda?”

She blinks as if woken up by a dream, instantly meeting your worried gaze.

“Hm?”

You frown. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes a little too quickly as she nods frantically.

Her gaze then drifts upward again, lingering on the ceiling for a moment before returning to you.

She titters as she lightly shakes her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”

An unpleasant sensation tugs at your chest.

“What is?” You ask thinly.

Wanda’s lips open and close once, as if something is holding her back.

“Do you ever feel like someone’s… watching you?”

For a second your heart forgets how to beat, but you eventually manage a strangled laugh.

“No?” The word sounds more like a question than an answer.

“It’s not bad,” she clarifies apprehensively. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like…” She trails off, shrugging at last. “Like there’s someone else here.”

You stare at her and Wanda stares back for a quiet, uncomfortable minute, before her eyes briefly land on the cups waiting on the table, and everything is forgotten.

But your friend’s laugh is less loud, shorter. Her attention keeps wandering, and more than once you catch her glancing at empty corners as though she expects something to be standing there.

She leaves nearly an hour earlier than planned.

The excuse she gives you sounds legitimate. The timing does not.

You stand on the threshold long after she disappears down the hallway before slowly closing the door, your forehead briefly resting on the wooden surface as you let out a tired sigh.

“You dislike her.”

You roll your eyes, straightening up. “You’re slipping. Wanda is one of my closest friends.” 

“Your interactions are infrequent.”

“We’ve known each other for eight years,” you reply promptly, a faint edge to your voice now. “We don’t need to talk every day for our friendship to be real.”

The Entity’s voice is pensive. “She occupies little of your time.”

“Again, that’s not how friendship works.” You huff, busying yourself with the dirty cups on the table.

“Proximity is important.” 

You let out a short, disbelieving breath.

“Friendship isn’t defined by how often someone is physically or temporally close to me.”

“Yours is an inconsistent system, then.” It concludes and you let the cups fall into the sink with a loud clank.

“What exactly is your criteria for liking people?” This time the question is not tinted with accusation so much as worn down into something closer to fatigue. You turn around, this time directly staring at the wall.

Arguing definitions with something that doesn’t operate like a human being is starting to feel pointless.

The answer takes longer this time.

“Not believing in the arrogant presumption that they could take you away from me. The delusion that something so small, so transient, could ever lay claim to what is mine is preposterous.” It states at last.

In some distant, irrational corner of your mind, the words feel familiar enough to not shock you anymore. But the clinical insolence, and how strongly it believes it has the right to make such a claim, is revolting.

It simply exists in it the way breath exists in you, natural and unquestioned.

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening as your teeth press hard enough to ache.

“And what makes you think you have any claim over me at all?” The words come out strained, held together by effort rather than control.

The silence that follows presses into your skin like the walls have leaned in a fraction closer.

The answer has always been in front of you, it’s only a matter of when you will surrender to it.

Some tv series you picked up days ago and barely remember choosing plays at low volume on the television. The voices rising and falling should be comforting, but their rhythm isn’t quite landing anywhere inside you. You still keep your gaze on the scene out of habit, hoping that alone might eventually turn into genuine engagement.

You have been repeating that to yourself for almost two hours.

You shift on the couch once, then again almost immediately after. Your shoulders settle, then lift. Your back presses into the cushions and then pulls away, searching for a version of contact that actually feels like it belongs to you.

Everything is technically fine—the room is warm, the couch is comfortable, the apartment quiet except for the show—but your skin feels strangely hot, too aware of itself, like it can’t stop registering the absence of something your brain refuses to name directly.

You cross your arms loosely, then uncross them again just to feel something brush against your hardened nipples under your camisole. The strong urge to have something hard and definite pressed against your body instead of this drifting tension that never fully resolves, is driving you mad.

Your thighs press together without much thought—a slow, instinctive squeeze that makes your breath hitch when you remember you haven’t worn anything underneath in hopes of getting some sort of stimulation against your clit.

It ends up being a useless attempt to soothe the arousal, because it only sharpens the need to take care of the ache in your core.

You let your leg bounce once against the couch cushion, then still it, then start again a moment later.

The Entity has altered your life completely. Privacy is no longer a clean boundary, but something porous that breathes back. It has turned upside-down the way you exist inside your own space, despite your earlier belief that you could simply ignore it and carry on as usual.

Some nights the fire licking at your insides becomes too unbearable, but a part of you keeps pulling back at the last second—the sole idea of being fully exposed to its monstrous eyes while having a dildo plunging in and out of your pussy makes your guts contort with shame.

Your mental health is on the line, because it leaves you suspended in this strange, unnerving state—restless, alert, never fully grounded in anything else.

So your body keeps searching for relief in innocent motions.

You shift again, sinking deeper into the couch, then slide slightly forward. One arm presses into your side and your breath catches once, shallow and unexpected.

The television continues without caring whether you’re following it or not. A scene changes. A line of dialogue lands but leaves no imprint.

After a while, you stop trying.

Your attention slips away from the screen entirely as your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the coffee table. The cushions dip as you shift your weight again, abandoning any effort at sitting properly.

You lie down, hoping to find a little comfort in a less rigid position. One leg lifts and settles over the back of the couch while the other bends a little, enough to plant your foot securely on the soft cushions.

Instagram feeds you fragments of other people’s lives: house tours, obnoxious laughter, delicious recipes, cleaning reels, captions you don’t read all the way through. Your thumb moves automatically, pulling you further down the stream.

It seems to work, finally granting you some sort of reprieve, until a sharp gasp claws out of your throat.

The room sinks into darkness as the TV screen goes black, but the shock is soon replaced by a thrill of fear as something brushes your ankle. It’s a slick, cold contact that makes you flinch violently. When you look down, your vision catches on movement that doesn’t belong in the geometry of the room, emerging from beneath the couch as if the floor itself has opened to grant it access.

Your limbs stay frozen as oxygen gets stuck in your throat. Your eyes lock on the tentacle, wide and unblinking, because looking away means potentially giving it the chance to attack you.

Your voice is shaking with worry when you decide to ask for help.

“Please tell me this your doing.”

The Entity answers immediately, the sound not arriving from any clear direction.

“Yes, that is mine. You do not need to worry.”

Your shoulders relax at once.

“What the hell happened to you?” You frown, because your brain reaches for the closest thing it can tolerate. “Did you turn into the kraken all of a sudden?”

The subtle recoil from the tentacle somehow reads as disdain.

“That insignificant squid with delusions of grandeur?” It growls, voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t lump me with that drooling, crude imitation ever again.”

Despite the shock still lingering, you snicker at the pure pique in its words.

You hum, shaking your head slightly. “My bad, Squidward.”

With a loud squeal, you find yourself dragged down until you’re fully lying on your back again, this time both of your thighs bent and spread open by two tentacles tightly wrapped around your ankles that keep you still and exposed.

“Quiet.”

Your heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. “Not my fault you decided to go all octopus on me.” You choke out, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your lower belly.

“That is because I know you enjoy it.”

Oh, you knew that tentacle-shaped dildo in the back of your closet would come back to bite you in the ass some day.

“Okay!” You loudly draw the word out, already feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”

“You are not stable.”

Your left eyebrow lifts in perplexity at the ceiling. “Excuse me?”

“I feel your restlessness.” It hums. “It gets stronger day after day. Something is bothering you.”

You frown. “So?”

“I know what it is that makes you fidget like a little, frightened bunny.” Your eyes widen. “And I can help you.”

That earns it a short, disbelieving chortle.

“Jesus Christ,” you drag a hand over your face. “Okay, I—I can’t believe I’m really going to say it.” You mutter to yourself.

“Whatever, okay. Let’s see what you got, big guy, since you apparently have all the answers—oh.”

Two other tentacles peek out from under the couch, thicker than the ones wrapped around your ankles. You can’t really tell their color—perhaps a shade close to dark teal, bordering on black—the only source of light being the moon shining through the open curtains and the weak glow of the city lights in the distance.

Surely, being spread open by your filthiest fantasy is not helping you keep a clear head. 

The two curious appendages stop by your stomach to kiss the soft skin with gentle caresses through the flimsy fabric of your camisole. Your breath catches in your throat when the tips teasingly graze your turgid nubs, but before a pathetic plea can fall from your lips, they wrap around your wrists to slowly guide both arms over your head.

Their hold is firm but not brutish as they keep them anchored against the cushion.

“What—” The word fades into a soft gasp as two thinner tentacles slide up your legs before trailing under the hem of your camisole.

“You constantly squeeze your thighs. I am simply helping you soothe the ache.”

Your eyes roll back at the simple yet suggestive explanation, your mouth forming a perfect circle as each one of the appendages finally takes hold of your breasts, their tips flicking your erected nipples with slow, sensual motions.

“You are… delightful to touch.”

“Thanks?” You frown in mild confusion, already panting from the playful touches against your tits.

“And beautiful.” It contemplates almost absently. “For a puny human, you have a stunning body.”

“You sure know how to woo a girl.” You answer drily, huffing out a strained chuckle. 

“I apologize. I am not quite acquainted with this.”

“This as in… ?” 

“Sex.”

Your eyes widen, before a sly smirk brightens your features. “Are you saying that me—a lowly, puny human—is going to take the big, mean kraken’s virginity?”

“Stop associating me with that unintelligent abomination!” The voice roars disgusted, a new tentacle lightly smacking your thigh. “I am a cosmic entity. And sex is a foreign concept to us: we do not reproduce, nor feel the need to pleasure ourselves.”

Your witty answer falls short when small, hard suction cups graze your clit through the light fabric of your shorts. The movement prompts you to thrust your hips up, and the tentacle responds in earnest, steadying itself to allow you to hump its surface as more tentacles slither up to rub your hips.

It exhales shakily. “I would like to see it.”

“Hm?” You moan quietly, too lost into the heavenly, throbbing sensation in your core to pay attention.

“This curious, warm spot.” The tentacle against your clit twitches. “Your hidden treasure. Its smell is celestial whenever you wake up sweaty and whimpering in the middle of the night, my little star. Did you know that? Did you know how hard it is to ignore your pretty, little cries?”

You whimper at the raw need in its voice. “You mean my pussy? I’m all yours, honey.”

It seems to appreciate your answer since the tentacles restraining your limbs immediately tighten their hold on you.

“Your clothes are in the way.”

“Let go of my wrists for a s—” The sound of fabric tearing leaves you gaping. 

When you glance down, you immediately catch two thick tentacles releasing the ruined fabric of your camisole. It now hangs pathetically by the short sleeves around your shoulders. The appendages already teasing your breasts can finally move across your naked chest, patiently yet freely. You can’t prevent the loud moan that claws out of your throat at the lewd sight of those two slimy limbs wrapped around your tits, prompting you to push your chest into their touch. 

You toss your head back when the suction cups finally attach themselves to your nubs, steadily sucking on it. It’s not entirely similar to a human mouth, not only because of the texture borders on rubbery, but also because of their colder temperature that feels surprisingly pleasant against your stiff nipples.

A string of wanton sounds falls from your parted lips as they alternate gentle strokes to playful, harsher tugs that leave you gasping for more.

“May I?” It strains out, two tentacles slightly pulling at the hem of your shorts.

“Please.” You moan.

With a mere tug, the sides of your bottoms rip into two perfect halves, and the fabric is abandoned under your ass. 

The tentacles holding your ankles finally spread your legs wider with an enthusiastic pull as every limit has finally been annihilated.

“Oh.”

You giggle at the amazed tilt in its voice. 

“I have never seen anything like this before.”

You jolt as the cold tips of two thin, smaller tentacles unexpectedly brush against your inner thighs, lazily sliding forward until they take hold of your folds, parting them delicately as if afraid you might break.

“Your pussy is very pretty” It hums. “It is glistening.”

“Thank you.” You breathe out, still squirming at the stinging sensation of the tentacles playing with your chest.

Silence engulfs the space as the Entity stills you completely, admiring the way your core shines beautifully with the mess you made with your slick. The tentacles still trace your folds leisurely, enjoying the smooth, wet texture.

At some point, they start toying with your hole, letting their tip slowly breach it only for the creature to marvel at how it flutters in response. Furthering its inspection, the tip of an appendage kisses your clit, using some of your slick to get your nub wet.

You gasp as it rubs your arousal through your folds with slight pressure, prompting the Entity to release a low, unconscious hum. It is more than satisfied with the sloppy sounds that bounce off the walls along with your hushed whimpers.

As the strokes of its tentacles turn more intense, the urge to feel it inside you becomes utterly oppressive. You don’t know if it is trying to tease you relentlessly, or perhaps if the curiosity it feels towards your body is genuine, wishing to take its time to study your reactions—from your cute sounds to the way you tense and squirm under its tender touches.

“Sublime.” It whispers. You squeak in response, writhing in its firm hold.

“Settle down, my little star.” It grumbles. “I am going to give you what you have been craving very soon.”

You nod eagerly, a cry erupting from your throat as the other appendage puts more pressure on your throbbing clit, the suction cup following the example of the two tentacles abusing your nipples by steadily tightening and releasing your nub.

Despite its weird, unique texture, it still feels like a mouth suckling on your clit.

“Must you move so much?”

“It feels—” You almost choke on your own saliva. “So good.” Your eyes squeeze close.

“Oh, my darling. You are such a vision.”

Your hips attempt to chase the stimulation, yet there are other appendages already emerging from different sides of the couch to carefully wrap around every exposed inch of your body, until you are forced to lie spread and still for the Entity to turn you into its personal fucktoy.

“Fuck.” You whisper, panting at the pure display of dominance.

The fact that you are fully restrained and exposed for this unknown, powerful creature to do as it pleases should terrify you—considering the sick obsession for you it flaunts so proudly.

Yet here you are, pliant and eager for it to finally lose control and possess you.

“That is indeed what I plan to do with you, lovely.”

“Oh, please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to unsuccessfully stop a shameless whine.

“You are an impatient little thing.” It chuckles eventually.

You would love to wipe the smugness out of its voice, see its tentacles flinch in disdain at another one of your silly nicknames, but then a smaller appendage joins the one that has been gently working on your clit and the two focus on two different rhythms, alternating quick, flicking motions to slow, intense sucks.

“Oh God.” You squeak, letting your head fall limp to the side. 

“I could spend an eternity buried in your little treasure and still, it would not be enough.” The voice grunts. “Sing for me, my little star.”

All it takes is the suction cups on your nipples tugging at the sensitive flesh for you to come. Your climax is so intense that your mouth opens around a loud, raw moan, your vision momentarily fading out as your body attempts to arch into the wicked stimulation.

“Gorgeous.” It marvels. “I need more.”

Your eyes widen as your pussy is lavished with attention by several more tentacles tracing your folds, forcing you into that delicious state of perpetual pleasure.

With rapid and decisive movements, the Entity quickly drives you over the edge over and over again, leaving you flinching pathetically in its hold, your muscles tensing up so often that you feel a faint ache throbbing in your tendons.

The appendages on your breasts are still eager on your tender nipples, abusing them with their suckling motion and cruel flickers.

“Looking at you makes it difficult to believe anything else deserves attention, little star. I apologize but I will never tire of your sweet sounds. You are ravishing when you surrender to pleasure.” 

“I can’t—” You sob, finally being granted a moment to breathe as a thin tentacle slides up your neck to catch the tears threatening to spill, lovingly stroking your cheeks and your damp forehead as you sniffle. 

Your eyes briefly roll back as those two sneaky tentacles keep your clit wet and sensitive, electricity running through your veins as your hips hopelessly jerk against the Entity’s appendages trapping your lower half.

“Do you wish to stop, pretty thing?”

“No! No please.” You cry out, your eyes instantly snapping open. “Just—need you inside, please.” A mewl falls from your lips at the gentle pressure on your hole.

You briefly catch something moving in your peripheral vision, and when your head turns, your heart almost stops at the sight of a new, perfectly thick tentacle emerging solemnly from underneath the couch. Its bumps and ridges are far more numerous and prominent than the ones scattered across the others.

“I know you are fond of certain… sizes.”

You whine, before something crucial finally dawns on you.

“W—what’s your name?”

It seems taken aback. “My name…” It muses. “It is too difficult for humans to pronounce, little star.”

“What should I call you then?”

“For now,” you moan shamelessly at the sensation of being finally filled. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

The appendage works inside you, the ridges a pleasant addition as they stroke along your walls in a steady motion while it carefully feeds you of its length.

“More.” You whimper.

“Hm?”

“Give me more.” Crying out, your hips attempt to thrust up.

Huffing a chuckle, the Entity manifests a few smaller tentacles that carefully push inside you along the bigger one, each of them focusing on a new spot to rub. Your eyes cross in bliss at the incredible feeling of being so stretched. The fullness is almost absurd, to the point that you briefly wonder if your body is going to explode at some point, all burning and taut as you feel trapped in an endless orgasm.

The depravity of being restrained and pounded by a mess of eager tentacles right in the middle of your living room only makes you moan louder.

“You have to be quieter, little star. Someone might hear you.”

The urge to chortle and reply with something sarcastic is strong, but right now you can barely recognize your surroundings.

“There could be the entire building watching me from the window for all I know and I still wouldn’t give a fuck.” You breathe out.

A wail roughly makes its way out of your chest when the little suction cups tug at your nipples harshly, the length of the appendages curling around the flesh of your breasts to fondle and squeeze them together. 

The Entity lets out a growl so guttural it makes your bones shake. 

Your breath catches when something slimy brushes over your bottom lip—another tentacle, quite thick but not like the one thrusting inside you. 

“Open.”

You obey at once, parting your mouth as it doesn’t waste any time to slip inside. Its motions are less harsh compared to the Entity’s possessive tone, and that allows your lips to wrap around it and suck at your own pace.

“I warned you before I would harm other beings if necessary.” It starts, your body tingling as the hair on the back of your neck raises at its baritone echoing right into your ear. 

The large tentacle around your waist tightens, almost protectively. 

“I will rip the flesh and feast on the bowels of anyone who dares to touch you.” The Entity’s tentacles inside your pussy pick up their pace, furious and wild, eliciting a string of loud moans out of you that get promptly muffled by the appendage curiously exploring your tongue.

“I love watching pleasure consume you, my lovely, beautiful creature.” It grunts. “You are perfect. So soft, and wet and warm.” It blabbers, as delirious as you.

A low moan quietly resounds in the living room as it plunges in and out of your pussy while the other tentacles work in unison to send you over the edge, never stopping their unforgiving twists and sucking on your nipples and clit until you are thrown back into pure and utter ecstasy.

“You are coming, right? I can feel your pretty pussy clench around me.” The tentacle inside your hole gently whirls as it slides in and out.

“I am going to mark you so deep with my essence that every being, mortal and celestial, will know not to challenge my claim on you.”

The Entity gasps as the tentacles holding and fucking you suddenly tense up, trembling and pulsing. It roars, the sound so primal it travels deep into your bones till it reaches the tips of your nerves. 

The warm, viscous liquid filling you initially catches you by surprise. Then, you eagerly accept it as if you’ve been craving it for eons, doing your best to relax your throat to accommodate the spasming tentacle.

The one on your clit moves harder and faster, clearly determined to break you completely.

You keep shuddering in sensitivity, yet the tentacles avidly work one last time to make the unbearable tension in your lower belly snap.

You shriek around the slimy flesh stuffing your mouth, not even noticing the smaller appendage that comes up to stroke your cheek, as though to calm you down. The other tentacles cling onto you, tightening their hold in tenderness to keep you safe throughout the burning climax that shatters the only ounce of composure you had left. 

Only when your body ceases its severe shaking, leaving you pliant and drenched in sweat, the Entity eases its grasp. The skin of your cheeks is gently held as the tips of two more appendages wipe away the tears the moment the tentacles leave your pussy.

The others begin a soft kneading motion on the sore muscles of your legs as the ones previously attached to your clit curiously brush your puffy folds, marveling at its cum steadily running down your hole and inevitably dirtying your ruined shorts.

You barely have any energy left to notice the deep ache in your joints when the Entity guides your arms back by your sides and your legs on the couch. Still, you try to control your stuttering breath as those two sneaky appendages keep stimulating you in tender curiosity.

“Rest, little star.”

You lazily blink at the ceiling, startled that your eyes had been closed this whole time. 

Speechless, your ears and mouth both feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool. “Huh?”

“Rest, little star.” It purrs, still caressing your sides, adoration dripping from each reverent touch. 

“You are safe with me here.”

The next morning, you wake with a small smile already tugging at your lips and your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memories linger a little more before consciousness can interfere—the beautiful sense of fullness, the phantom ache of being held firmly in place without needing to understand the technicalities, the solid warmth curled around you in the aftermath.

It’s only when you open your eyes that you notice the unusual quiet.

You lie still for a moment longer than necessary with bated breath, because some part of you is already reaching for that familiar presence that always lingers somewhere at the edge of your awareness. But you can’t find it.

You sit up almost lethargically, expecting the feeling to return now that you’re properly awake. The apartment is exactly as it should be, unchanged in every single detail, and somehow that only makes the emptiness beneath your ribs harder to ignore.

Of course you assume it will return, so you start your morning, anticipating the Entity to pop out anytime as you eat breakfast.

But the coffee grows cold in your mug. The television drones quietly in the background. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as the hours go by... And still nothing.

Usually, its silences never feel truly empty. Even when it isn’t speaking, there is always the certainty that it is there with you.

This is different.

And that’s where everything begins to change.

The next day arrives with a kind of stubborn normality that feels almost insulting.

You wake again hopeful that the absence might have been temporary, something that would fix itself the way it should. But the same void is still there.

What unsettles you the most is not the loss itself but the way your thoughts keep skirting around it, never lingering for too long, as though looking at it directly might break you completely.

It hurts to acknowledge the small pauses between actions, the moments where you find yourself waiting for something to talk, and then realize, too late, that there is nothing to respond at all.

Each time it happens, it leaves behind a faint sting of embarrassment.

By the fourth day, the idea that something was there starts to feel like a version of events that only exists because you keep brooding over it, even when everything around you refuses to support it.

You keep turning moments inside out, trying to hold them in place, but they slip out of reach as soon as you look at them too closely.

It feels like a stab behind your ribs, because your memories of it are no longer anchored to anything that could confirm its existence.

There are moments when anger comes out of nowhere, sharp and ugly, usually when you catch yourself waiting again without meaning to. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, reacting so strongly to something that simply left without a word.

That feeling turns quickly inward, because there is nothing else to blame that makes sense.

Only you.

After several days, its memory trails after you like a ghost—quiet enough to ignore for a while, but never far enough to forget.

You work, eat, sleep, and in between, there is always that quiet, painful feeling of something missing.

Gradually, you accept that it is not going to return. Not because you have figured some big mystery out, but because the waiting has sunk its poisonous teeth into you. It feeds on every quiet moment, contaminating every stray thought, gnawing steadily at your sanity, rotting the vulnerable parts of your life.

Day by day, it consumes you out from the inside, leaving behind a space shaped entirely by its hunger.

At the end of the second week, the silence has become ordinary in a way that almost convinces you it was always like this. The version of events where something had been present starts to feel increasingly difficult to defend, even in the privacy of your own mind.

It’s only later that reality bursts in a way you cannot ignore anymore.

You are standing there, knife in hand, your movements automatic as you work over the cutting board, when something inside you finally tears loose, so violent that even breathing results painful.

Your movements slow without permission, until they stop completely.

For a long, horrible moment your still body exists in a space that feels suddenly foreign. Your eyes stare blankly at the counter as your vision quickly blurs. You blink once, sharply, hoping that it would fix it, but it doesn’t. Only then something wet falls on your cheek.

You let out a short, disbelieving huff.

“Shit.” You swallow thickly, but the word comes out wrong—thin, strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

You press the heels of your hands briefly against your eyes as if that could physically push the tears back into place. If anything, it only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing heavier with every second.

“This is pathetic.” You whimper, not sure whether the anger is aimed at yourself or at the situation.

Or at the fact that there is no situation at all.

Because there is nothing to justify this.

Nothing that should be making you cry in the middle of making dinner on a random Friday night.

You let out a sharp laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

“I’m actually losing it.” You sniffle.

Standing there with your breath uneven and your face still wet, your hands wipe your cheeks a little too roughly.

Your attention goes back to the cutting board, as if resuming the task might finally steady that precarious balance you’ve been clinging to for days, but your hands don’t immediately follow. They hover—uncertain, trembling.

And beneath all of it, there is still that absence—hollow and impossible to prove—pressing against the inside of your awareness, a dull ache lodged in your chest that no amount of distraction can soothe.

The next week is quieter.

You stop revisiting it. There is no point in chasing something that leaves only pain behind.

You’re not waiting anymore, not voluntarily at least. You still pause sometimes in doorways, still find yourself listening into empty rooms, but the expectation is gone. What’s left is only habit.

You eat because Tony still needs your help keeping the company running—there are too many things that would fall apart without you.

You clean because the mess won’t clean itself.

You move because stopping would mean having to untangle what comes next, and the sole thought of facing that is akin to stepping off the edge of a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

At night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours—not really on purpose, sleep just evades you. When nothing happens, there’s no disappointment. Only a bland confirmation.

The absence stops being absence, it just becomes normality again.

Because remembering hurts more than letting go.

Three months pass and you have finally taken some of the vacation days that have been accumulating in your file for months.

Well, calling it a vacation feels generous considering most of it has been spent catching up on everything you never seem to have time for while working.

Medical checkups you kept postponing. A dentist appointment for a wisdom tooth you should have booked six months ago. And then there are the usual tedious tasks: laundry, groceries, cleaning...

By all accounts, it should feel productive.

Instead, you are left drained.

You move through your days checking items off lists and running errands across the city, returning home every evening with aching feet and the vague satisfaction of having accomplished something, only to discover the feeling never lasts particularly long.

The apartment is still your favorite place. At least, you think it is. Lately, it feels less like comfort and more like retreat.

There are moments when you catch yourself staring into nothing for no reason. Moments where a pit opens somewhere in your stomach before disappearing so quickly you almost convince yourself it never happened.

You have stopped trying to understand it, though. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—refuses to become any clearer with time.

Maybe loneliness is capable of stranger things than people give it credit for.

Maybe your mind had built something elaborate to fill a void you didn’t even know was there.

Maybe that’s why the memories still feel like a knife buried deep in your chest.

By the final day of your leave, you have mostly made peace with what your life has become.

You spend the afternoon exactly as planned: sprawled across the couch, surrounded by junk food and no obligations in sight. For the first time in weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.

When the doorbell rings, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream and so absorbed in the new season of Abbott Elementary that it takes you a moment to realize the sound isn’t coming from the television.

You briefly assume it belongs to your phone, lost somewhere between the cushions, and decide to ignore it. You have every intention of enjoying the last few hours of freedom before returning to your personal circle of hell that is Tony’s company.

However, after exactly one minute, the shrill sound comes back, clear and unmistakable, and now you are pushing yourself upright with a groan—your back aches from lying there all day.

You cross the space without much urgency, immediately regretting all your life choices once you open the door in pajamas and find a handsome man standing on your doorstep.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt that perfectly hug his big, sturdy body.

He has the kind of face that would attract attention without ever seeking it. A man people notice instinctively and then spend the next several minutes pretending they haven’t, because there is something eerily intimidating about a face that looks carved by the gods themselves.

His eyes catch your attention next.

Blue. Startlingly so, almost unnaturally bright, the color so vivid and intense it looks like pigment suspended beneath glass. You decide they must be contacts, because that’s the safest explanation and your brain is gradually learning to settle into this pattern for the sake of your own sanity.

The moment he smiles, the effect is immediate.

It softens his sharp beauty, easy and unforced in a way that invites trust and warmth.

Such a shame that his presence is so staggering that you completely miss what really lies beneath the illusion—a crude imitation.

His body seems to always react a fraction later than intention: his shoulders shift a moment after his head turns and his posture corrects itself a beat too stiffly, as though alignment is a conscious reminder rather than an innate response.

When he steps forward, there is the faintest unevenness in his weight, one foot pressing down a little too carefully before the other follows. A subtle trembling persists in his legs even when standing still, his knees locking into place a second later than expected.

Even his hands don’t settle easily. When they fall to his sides, a few fingers twitch and bend on their own accord before returning back to a more natural state.

“Hello.”

There is something unfairly serene about his voice, just as smooth as silk.

“I’m James,” he continues. “I just moved in next door. Apartment 6B.”

The tension you hadn’t noticed you were holding loosens without permission, leaving your shoulders a fraction lighter and your breath a little less controlled than it had been a moment before.

Unfortunately, you realize a moment too late that you have been staring at his gorgeous face all along.

“Oh—sorry.” You let out a short, embarrassed chuckle as you shake your head. “I didn’t know Ms. Esposito moved.”

The man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the name.

“Ms. Esposito?” He repeats, lightly, the name seemingly not settling the way it should.

That small hesitation makes your brows knit faintly in confusion.

“Yeah,” you add, half-amused. “She lived here. Apartment 6B. I just thought—”

You decide to stop as his expression remains unchanged, waving your hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

Maybe they didn’t have the chance to meet each other.

His gaze remains exactly where it is, fixed on your face with the same intense attentiveness as before.

The silence stretches a second longer than it should, and you find yourself shifting slightly under it.

“Well,” you start with a small titter, eager to fill the gap before it becomes too awkward. “Nice to meet you, James.”

As you offer him your name, something shifts—a subtle spasm in his features, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

You accept his extended hand without hesitation. His grip is warm, firm without being excessive, but there is a curious deliberateness that suggests he is paying more attention to the contact than what is socially acceptable.

You are already preparing to let go when his grip abruptly tightens around your hand, enough that the bones in your fingers press together unpleasantly. The change catches you off guard. Your breath hitches as a sharp pulse of discomfort runs up your arm, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze drops to your joined hands, noticing how his knuckles have been turning an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on dark grey.

When you look back up in confusion, your stomach gives a small, sickening lurch.

James’ big smile is exactly the same, but it doesn’t respond anymore. It stays frozen in place with an odd consistency, as if it has been placed there and forgotten.

You don’t remember his eyes looking so... wide. His eyelids seem to draw farther and farther apart by imperceptible degrees, exposing a little more white with every passing second.

Your hand jerks in a reflexive attempt to pull away, but his grip doesn’t yield. It holds with the intransigent firmness of steel, his long fingers locked around yours as though they have forgotten how to let go.

And so you remain there, forced to watch as the features of this weird stranger soften until they slowly melt out of shape.

“Oh, I already know that, little star.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.

The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk. You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the nightstand, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them. 

He'd seen this exact scene before — you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on — and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours. He almost did. His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating. The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach. 

Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent. He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside — not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs. A star. He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him. He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months — the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know. To him, this wasn’t some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges he’d been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.

He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.  He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working. 

He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.  He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me." The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper. "Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes." Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct. He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed. "You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing. "I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me." "It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder "Pages worn soft from reading it." "Bucky —" "Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel… with her breeding kink book on the nightstand." A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him. "I'm not doing anything." "You're laughing at me." "I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time." You went completely still. "Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby." A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want —" "I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just — thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead. 

He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots." You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him. Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly. Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy." A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow. "Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want." "Please —" "Please what baby?" "Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it —" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.  Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room. 

When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in. His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way." "Bucky —"  "I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots." You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room. "I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing." "Yes — please —" "These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?" A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound. "Aren't you, baby?" "Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want —" "Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that." "More — please — Bucky—" He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.  His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me." You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved. "Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"

"Bucky —"

"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"

You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl." Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him. "You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.

"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."

"Please — I'm so close —"

"I know, baby… I know. Say it first."

"Make me a mommy —" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please — make me a mommy—" That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there "Take it — take all of it — every drop, baby —" He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could. He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word. When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs. He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it. Your whole body twitched. "Bucky." "Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go. "I know what you're doing," you said. "I know you do." He didn't move his hand though. A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there — one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach. He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what. "You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there. "No," he said. "Either one." "No." You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move. 

You’d hummed. “You’re always screwed. What’s new?”

“I need a model for my life painting class. Carmen bailed. Again.” He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair, already smudged with ultramarine. “Professor says if I don’t log enough hours with a live figure, I can’t pass.”

You’d closed the book slowly, eyes gleaming in that way that always meant trouble. “Life painting,” you’d repeated, too innocently. “Like… nude?”

He’d groaned. “Yes, like nude.”

There had been a beat of silence. Then you’d sat up, grinning. “I mean, I can do it.”

He’d blinked at you. “What?”

“You’ve seen me just about naked,” you’d said with a shrug. “We practically grew up glued to each other. You trust me. I trust you. Paint me like one of your French girls, Buck.”

He’d rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “That’s not even the right movie reference.”

But he hadn’t said no.

Now, two days later, you’re standing in the middle of his studio with your heart in your throat.

The space is warmer than usual, the overhead lights angled just right to mimic the setup he’ll use in class. A chaise he borrowed from the theater department sits in the center, draped in soft cream fabric. His easel is positioned a few feet away, canvas already stretched tight.

You’re in his oversized flannel and nothing else.

“Honey,” he says gently from behind the easel, not looking at you yet. “You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

You swallow. You can see the tips of his fingers curled around the edge of the canvas, faintly trembling. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m gonna do it.” You force a grin, even though your stomach is somersaulting. “I’m gonna show you my boobs now.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “Jesus.”

You slide the flannel off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. For a split second, you’re tempted to cover yourself, to cross your arms over your chest like some cliché modest statue. But you don’t. You force yourself to breathe. You’ve known him since you were six. He held your hand when you got your ears pierced. He let you cry into his shoulder after your first heartbreak. He is safe.

Still, the air feels electric the moment your skin is bare.

There’s a long pause.

Then you hear his breath hitch.

You lift your chin stubbornly. “You can look, you know. That’s kind of the point.”

He exhales slowly and steps slightly to the side so he can see you fully. The look on his face almost undoes you.

You’ve seen Bucky paint sunsets and strangers and abstract grief that made professors cry. But you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he’s looking at you now.

Reverent.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Sit back. Lean on your left arm. Yeah—like that.”

You lower yourself onto the chaise, shifting until you find something that feels natural. One knee bent, the other leg extended, your spine curved just slightly. Vulnerable and open.

He starts painting.

At first, it’s almost easy. The scratch of bristles on canvas is familiar. You joke about how you expect to look like a lumpy potato. He shoots back that he’s an artist, not a miracle worker. You both laugh, tension bleeding out in small, manageable doses.

But then the silence stretches.

His gaze moves slowly, mapping every line of you. The curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your hips. His eyes darken, focus sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.

You become acutely aware of everything—the way your nipples tighten under the lights, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the way your breathing grows shallow.

He clears his throat. “Tilt your head a little.”

You do.

“Good. Don’t move.”

You try not to.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time feels syrup-thick.

Finally, he steps out from behind the easel.

Your pulse spikes immediately.

“Can I just… adjust you really quick?” he asks quietly.

Your mouth goes dry. “Sure.”

He approaches slowly, like you’re something fragile. Something precious.

He kneels in front of you first, lightly nudging your ankle to extend your leg another inch. His fingers are warm. They linger for too long.

You feel it.

He rises to his feet, close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the paint smudges on his collarbone. His hand comes up to your shoulder, brushing a strand of hair back.

His fingertips skim your bare skin and your breath catches.

His hand trails down—just barely—along the curve of your arm, then your waist, adjusting the angle of your hip. His thumb presses into the soft flesh there, steadying you.

You look up.

He makes the mistake of meeting your eyes.

Everything unravels.

There’s years in that look. Sleepovers and shared secrets and stolen glances at fifteen. The way he’d once almost kissed you behind the bleachers and then pretended it never happened. The way neither of you ever crossed the line.

“We’re so fucked,” you whisper.

His lips part.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s messy and desperate and nothing like the slow, careful way he paints. His mouth crashes against yours, paint-stained fingers cupping your jaw. You gasp into him, hands fisting into his shirt, pulling him closer.

He groans, the sound low, and suddenly you’re the one dragging him down onto the chaise.

Somewhere in the chaos, a jar of paint tips over. Something splatters across the hardwood floor.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” you pant.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, paint-smudged hands sliding over your breasts like he’s memorizing them. You arch into him, breath hitching as his thumb brushes your nipple, spreading a streak of cobalt blue across your skin.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal.”

You tug at his shirt, desperate. “Take it off.”

Clothes disappear in frantic handfuls. His jeans hit the floor with a thud. Your laugh dissolves into a moan when he presses you back against the chaise, body covering yours completely.

There’s paint everywhere now—on your hips, on his chest, smeared between you like some abstract masterpiece.

He moves against you slowly at first, like he’s still afraid this might vanish. Like you might change your mind.

You don’t.

Your nails drag down his back. His name falls from your lips in a breathless plea. When he finally sinks into you, the both of you gasp like it’s a revelation.

It’s messy. It’s heated. It’s years of restraint snapping in one explosive moment.

Paint streaks across your thighs as he moves. His forehead presses to yours. You feel him everywhere—warm and solid and yours.

“Baby,” he whispers like it’s a prayer.

You cling to him, breath shaking. “Don’t ever sweep this under the rug again.”

He laughs softly, kissing you harder as everything crashes into something blinding and overwhelming and perfect.

Later, you’re tangled together on the studio floor, half-covered in dried paint and discarded fabric.

The canvas stands abandoned behind you.

You trace lazy patterns over his chest, smearing what’s left of green across his skin. “So,” you murmur.

“So,” he echoes.

You tilt your head, studying him with a small smile. “Are you in as deep as me?”

He snorts softly. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Probably?”

He rolls you beneath him again, grinning in that way that used to make you blush at fourteen. “Definitely.”

The first time Bucky saw you with his your adjusted jersey, he nearly lost his mind.

You cheered in the first row, just like he had asked you to and just like you did every time Bucky played. It was cheesy, maybe, but a good luck kiss was all he needed. It was his ritual, and he would not let anyone get in the way.

The song playing through the speakers changed. Even in his state, Bucky recognised it. You loved that song; it was your song. And just as he had predicted, when he made his way to the dance floor, he saw you.

You danced without a care in the world. Next to you was Peggy, who held your hand as you danced and sang the lyrics back to her in a slightly off-tune manner.

Bucky's heart tripped over itself.

Your hair was loose and you had glitter sticking to your cheeks. The jersey was slipping from one of your shoulders, revealing skin and the baby blue lace of your bra. There was his girl. The woman with degree-level knowledge of musical theatre and who once nearly fell off the bed after laughing at biology jokes.

You were able to get any new concept through his skill and also look ridiculously good while doing it. Study sessions didn't include much studying, that was for sure.

With ease—in that Barnes manner that only saw itself magnified with the alcohol—he slid next to you. He placed one hand over your waist and moved alongside you. Peggy took this as her sign and quietly walked off. Steve must've been looking for her, too.

"Bucky!" You blurted out, turning your head around.

His eyes were bright like diamonds, and it was all because of you. "In the flesh, baby."

You danced and Bucky just stared. His heart thrummed against his chest and in his ears. For a moment, he almost forgot who he was. He spun you around and pulled you flush against him. He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. Your hand reached out to brush his jaw. He let out a groan, lazy and in love.

"You did really well today, Buck. I'm proud of you," you murmured against his lips.

He smiled in return, meeting you for another kiss. The more time you spent kissing, the less aware of himself Bucky became. He was flowing with what his body told him to do and following your lead.

The kiss deepened, and Bucky readjusted his grip on your waist. He breathed you in: vanilla and some flowers. It was your pulse points and the spots behind your ears—which he also kissed. He had asked you once, while you lay on his bed, what your secret to smelling so heavenly at all times was. Vaseline and perfume on the pulse points on your neck, behind your ears and of the back of your knees.

Bucky pulled away, but you tugged him by the shirt, bringing him right back against your lips. He tried to say something, but your mouth swallowed the words. One of his hands slid under your shirt; it was warmer than it had any right to be. In return, you nipped at his bottom lip.

Bucky was one step away from carrying you up the stairs of the house where the party was being held and—

You pulled away before his mind had the chance to continue with his very, very pleasant thoughts. His baby blue eyes snapped open and stared at you like a deer caught in the headlights. "Why'd you stop?"

"We're drunk, baby." Your hand brushed against his chest, right over his heart in the same way it always did when you felt he was nervous.

"True…" Bucky was tall and looked down at you with squinted eyes. "Sleeping with you is much better sober, anyway."

"Glad we're on the same page, then," you murmured, entranced once again by him and only him.

Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.

Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.

James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.

He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.

Because you had.

You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.

Even with his corny ass mustache.

It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.

It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”

Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.

And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.

Even more so, his big dick.

If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.

And, yes, there were red flags.

The texts, for one.

In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.

He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.

It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.

It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.

And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.

You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.

Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.

You really, truly believed that.

And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.

And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.

You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.

james barnes (bucky) Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm

You lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm

james barnes (bucky) Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm Doll? | 10:39pm

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.

You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.

But it didn’t stop.

By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.

You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.

More messages had piled in.

james barnes (bucky) Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm

“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.

You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”

“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”

You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.

“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”

Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.

MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.

Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.

You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.

You just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm

james barnes (bucky) Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm

You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.

“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.

You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.

“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.

She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.

“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”

“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.

Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”

MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.

You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.

james barnes (bucky) When are you heading home? | 11:02pm Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm

It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.

You im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm

You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.

Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.

james barnes (bucky) I will, sorry. | 11:06pm Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm

You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.

The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.

Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”

They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”

You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.

Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”

You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”

Darcy laughed beside you.

“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”

“—Michelle, please.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”

You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.

“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”

You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.

Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”

“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.

“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”

You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.

MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.

Then your shoulders dropped a little.

You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”

“Dump him.”

“Dump his old creepy ass.”

MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”

Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.

MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”

You turned your head slowly. “A break?”

“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”

You frowned faintly, listening.

“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”

You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”

“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.

Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.

A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.

“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.

The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.

It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.

The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.

There he was.

Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.

He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.

He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.

When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.

The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.

“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.

“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”

He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”

A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.

He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.

Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.

“Another one?” he murmured.

He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”

“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.

He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”

Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.

He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.

You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”

“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.

He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.

“Bucky, please—”

“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”

As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”

An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.

As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.

Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.

“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”

“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.

Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.

Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.

“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.

You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.

Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.

Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”

With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.

Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.

You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.

He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”

“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.

You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.

“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.

As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.

He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”

He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.

“I got you, doll,” he whispered.

And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.

“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”

He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.

His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.

“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.

“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”

“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.

The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.

The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.

Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.

For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.

But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.

He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.

He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.

“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.

You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.

“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”

You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.

Then his next sentence caught your attention.

“Think you should move in with me.”

He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.

You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.

“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.

“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”

You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”

The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.

His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.

“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.

Something important.

It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.

Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.

“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.

He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.

“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”

It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.

“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”

Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”

You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.

You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.

He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.

He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”

His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”

The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.

His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.

“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.

It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.

He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.

“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”

You said nothing.

Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.

You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.

And so began the silent treatment.

Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.

He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.

He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.

“You know I love you, yeah?”

You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.

His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?

You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”

He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.

He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.

At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.

You had no idea where that came from.

His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.

You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.

Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.

But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.

Let him think that.

“A break?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.

Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock. 

Perfect timing, doll, I just—

Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.

He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”

You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”

“—so you’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”

“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.

He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”

“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”

You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.

You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.

“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.

“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.

He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.

“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”

You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.

“Bucky, what are—hmph—”

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.

What the fuck.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.

“Mmph—Bucky—”

“I love you,” he emphasised.

Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.

“And you love me.”

Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.

“I need you, doll.”

And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.

Slap. Slap. SLAP.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.

You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.

“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.

It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”

You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”

Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.

“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.

You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”

You scoffed.

Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.

And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.

You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.

His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”

You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.

“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.

“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”

“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids. 

Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.

“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”

He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.

“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”

He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”

You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”

He turned around.

And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.

You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.

“What the fuck!”

But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”

He ignored you.

“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.

You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.

“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”

“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.

And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.

He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”

“Oh my God.”

“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.

But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”

“You counted?”

“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”

You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.

His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”

You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”

“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”

Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”

The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.

“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”

You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.

Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”

“Wait—what?”

You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”

His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.

“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”

“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.

Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.

Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.

“For fuck’s sake—”

He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.

You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.

Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.

He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—

But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.

In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.

Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.

“He pulled out a gun?”

Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.

The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.

Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”

“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”

Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”

You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”

She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension. 

“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”

You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Girl.”

“What?” you said defensively.

“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”

You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”

Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”

“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.

“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”

You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating? 

“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”

She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”

“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”

Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.

“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”

“I probably sounds insane.”

“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”

She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”

You stared at her.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.

Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.

“He must have a big dick, huh?”

The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.

You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”

“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”

“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”

“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.

You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.

She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.

You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.

“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”

Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”

“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.

Then your phone rang.

You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.

“He what?!”

The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.

“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”

Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”

You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”

You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.

“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”

Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.

You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.

The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.

But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.

The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.

Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.

He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.

His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.

Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.

And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.

There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.

The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.

The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.

“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.

He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.

The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”

His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.

And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.

Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.

You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.

You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”

“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”

You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”

“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.

You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.

“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”

if you made it this far… thanks

The apartment smelled like him—cedar and gunmetal, something old and something warm—even before he walked through the door.

You were curled on the couch, knees tucked under a quilt that had no business being on a Brooklyn evening in late May but which you refused to give up even as the first humid whispers of summer crept through the window screens. A dog-eared paperback dangled from your fingers, the ceiling fan spun its lazy circles overhead, and somewhere two floors up someone was playing jazz at a volume that suggested they either had no neighbors or no shame. The city hummed its usual lullaby outside the open windows, the smell of somebody's charcoal grill drifting up from the fire escape three floors down, and you were comfortable. Safe. That particular flavor of domestic stillness that had taken you months to get used to after Bucky had barreled into your life and turned everything you thought you knew about softness on its head.

The lock turned. Three clicks—old habit, military precision, the kind of muscle memory that didn't fade even after decades of being someone else's weapon. The door swung inward and then—

“Oh,” you said.

Not because you were disappointed. Not because you were horrified. But because your brain had just short-circuited somewhere between your occipital lobe and your mouth, and all that came out was that single, stupid syllable, flat as a stone skipped across still water.

Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, early summer clinging to the shoulders of his leather jacket, and his hair was gone.

Not all of it—he wasn't cue-ball bald, thank god, you didn't think you would have survived that—but the familiar dark waves that usually fell across his forehead, the ones you tangled your fingers in when he was sleepy, the ones that curled at the nape of his neck and made him look like he'd just rolled out of a 1940s recruitment poster? Gone. Shorn down to a dark, velvety fuzz that hugged the perfect shape of his skull like a second skin, so short you could probably see the pale skin beneath if you stood close enough.

He'd kept the stubble on his jaw but everything else had been sacrificed to whatever demon possessed him between the hours of six and nine tonight.

The door closed behind him with a soft thunk. He didn't move further into the room. Just stood there in the entryway, the warmth of the evening clinging to him, and watched you.

And you watched him back, because holy hell.

He looked—

There was no word for it. Not in English, or Spanish, not in the three other languages you spoke passably well, not in the silence that stretched between you like a held breath. He looked dangerous. The buzz cut changed everything. Without the curtain of hair to soften the angles, his cheekbones were knives, his jaw was a cut diamond, and his eyes—those impossible light blue eyes that had seen a century of horrors and somehow still found room for tenderness—they seemed bigger somehow. More exposed. More him.

The metal arm gleamed under the overhead light, the vibranium catching the glow and throwing it back in soft golds and silvers, and without the shaggy dark hair to balance it, the contrast was almost obscene. Man and Soldier. Flesh and something other. He looked like something out of a dream you'd wake up from gasping, sweating, sheets twisted around your thighs, heart pounding.

You realized, with a distant sort of horror, that your mouth had fallen slightly open.

Bucky's expression flickered.

It was subtle—a micro-shift in the set of his shoulders, a minute downturn at the corner of his lips. The kind of thing you'd miss if you didn't know him the way you knew him, if you hadn't spent countless nights mapping the topography of his face with your fingertips, learning every crease and shadow and the stories they told.

“It's that bad, huh?” He said it lightly. Too lightly. The words hung in the air between you, fragile as spun glass.

You blinked. What?

He tugged off his jacket—movements comical and stoic, almost harsh—and draped it over the hook by the door without looking at you. “Should've known. Sam said it was a mistake. 'Barnes,' he said, 'you do not have the bone structure for a buzz cut, put the clippers down and step away from the mirror.' But did I listen? No. I never listen.” He laughed. It didn't reach his eyes. “Guess I should've asked you first, right? That's what normal boyfriends do. They ask. They don't just come home looking like a—a thug.”

“Bucky—”

“It's fine.” He ran a hand over his head—a gesture that was clearly new, clearly unconscious, his palm skimming over the short bristles like he was surprised to find them there. “It was just bothering me, you know? The heat. The weight of it. And I swear to god, sweetheart, I sweat like a sinner in church the second the temperature hits seventy-five. The serum doesn't do everything right, apparently.” Another pass of his hand, almost defensive now. “Figured this would be easier. For missions, too. Less to grab onto in a fight. Tactical. Very tactical. That's what I told myself.”

“Bucky—”

“And now I look like I just got out of basic training circa 1943, which was not the look I was going for, believe me. I was going for 'cool and collected.' Maybe 'mysterious.' Instead I got ‘now give me your lunch money.'” He finally, finally looked at you properly, and what you saw in his expression made something in your chest crack clean in two.

He was nervous.

This man. This impossible, indestructible, century-old super-soldier who had faced down Hydra and aliens and his own personal apocalypse. He was standing in his own apartment, freshly shorn, looking at you like a teenager waiting to be rejected.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges, “if you hate it, just say so. I can—I don't know. Wear a hat. That grandpa hat you love making fun of. Or I can grow it back. Whatever you want. I just... I couldn't stand it anymore. The way it stuck to my forehead. The way it felt heavy. You don't understand, it's like wearing a wool blanket on your head when it's eighty degrees out, and I know you liked playing with it, and I should have asked, and I'm sorry, I'm—”

You stood up.

The quilt fell away, pooling on the couch cushions. The paperback hit the floor with a soft thump that neither of you acknowledged. You crossed the room in four steps, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and stopped just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

He was so tall. He was always tall, but without the hair, he seemed taller. Broader. More present. You had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, and when you did, you saw the insecurity lurking there, swimming just below the surface like something waiting to breach.

“You absolute moron,” you said, and your voice came out breathless.

His brow furrowed. “That's not—is that good or bad? Because I'm getting mixed signals here, and my therapist said I need to work on—”

You grabbed the front of his henley—soft grey, worn thin from washing, the collar stretched out because he had a habit of tugging on it when he was thinking—and yanked him down.

He came willingly, of course. He always came willingly. But there was a moment of confusion in his eyes before your mouths met, a flicker of what is happening that made you want to shake him and kiss him in equal measure.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you give someone when words have failed you and your body has decided to take over. You bit his lower lip—just a nip, just enough to make him gasp—and used the distraction to push him backward until his spine hit the wall with a thud that rattled the framed print of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging beside the door.

His hands found your waist. They always found your waist, like they were magnetized there, the flesh hand warm and calloused, the metal hand cool and smooth. He squeezed, a reflex, and you felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease.

“Okay,” he breathed against your mouth. “Okay. So you don't hate it.”

You pulled back just far enough to look at him.

His lips were already reddened, parted slightly, and his pupils were blown wide enough that the blue of his irises was barely visible. The short hair made his face look raw. Vulnerable. Like someone had peeled back a layer of him you'd never seen before, and underneath was something even more beautiful than the version you'd fallen in love with.

“Hate it?” you repeated. Your voice was doing something strange—higher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. “Bucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “Based on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'”

You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“You look like a fucking god,” you said. “You look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man. You look—” You had to stop, had to breathe, because you could feel your face heating up and your thoughts scattering like startled birds. “I couldn't speak, Bucky. That's why I was quiet. You opened the door and my brain just... stopped. Because you're standing there looking like that, and I'm supposed to just carry on a normal conversation?”

Something shifted in his expression. The insecurity didn't vanish—it never did, not completely, not with everything he'd been through—but it receded, pulled back like a tide giving way to sun-warmed sand.

“Yeah?” he said. Soft. Almost disbelieving.

“Yeah.” You reached up and touched his head.

The sensation was wild. Instead of the familiar silky strands you usually threaded your fingers through, your palm met soft, short bristles that tickled your skin. You made a sound that you're not even going to pretend it was dignified, it was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and ran your hand over the curve of his skull again, marveling at the way the short hair felt under your palm. Like velvet. Like a peach. Like something you wanted to rub your cheek against like a cat marking its territory.

Bucky's breath hitched.

“That's...” He trailed off, swallowed hard. “You're making a face.”

“I'm having a sensory experience,” you corrected him. “There's a difference.”

His lips twitched. The first real smile of the evening, tentative and a little bit goofy, and it transformed his whole face from heart-stopping to devastating. “A sensory experience.”

“Don't mock me. I'm grieving.”

“Grieving?” Now he just looked confused again.

You dropped your hand, let it fall to his chest, and tried to ignore the way his heartbeat thrummed against your palm. “I can't pull your hair anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky stared at you. You stared back. And then, slowly, like the sun coming up over a battlefield, he laughed.

Not the hollow laugh from earlier. Not the self-deprecating deflection he used as armor. A real laugh, surprised and warm and so full of relief that it made your chest ache. His head fell back against the wall, exposing the long line of his throat, and you watched the laughter move through him like a wave.

“That's what you're upset about,” he said when he could breathe again. “Not the hair. The hair-pulling.”

“I had plans for that hair,” you said, and you absolutely did not pout. Bucky loves that lovely pout. “Do you know how many times I've lain awake at night thinking about getting my hands in it again even after I just did it? How many fantasies involved me yanking your head back by those perfect, stupid, gorgeous curls while I—”

His hand clapped over your mouth.

It was his flesh hand, warm and a little rough, and his eyes had gone dark in a way that made your stomach flip over.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice had dropped about an octave. “Okay, honey. I get it. You're not mad.”

You licked his palm.

He jerked his hand away with a scandalized noise, and you grinned up at him, triumphant.

“I'm not mad,” you confirmed. “I'm furious. There's a difference.”

“You keep using words that don't mean what you think they mean.”

“Shut up and let me admire you.”

You pushed off his chest and took a step back—just one, just enough to see all of him. The buzz cut. The sharp cheekbones. The way the collar of his henley gaped slightly, showing the pale skin of his clavicle. The metal arm, gleaming, beautiful, his. He stood there under your gaze like a man who had spent decades being looked at and never once seen, and you wanted to wrap him up in something soft and never let the world touch him again.

But first—

“Turn around,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I want to see the back.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face again, but he obeyed. Turned slowly, deliberately, like he was giving you time to change your mind. And when his back was to you, you saw that the short hair extended all the way down, hugging the strong column of his neck, exposing the place where his skull met his spine in a way that made your mouth water.

The nape of his neck. His nape. There was something about a man's nape, about the vulnerability of it, the way the hair grew in soft whorls and the skin was always a little paler there. It was the part of him that was easiest to kiss when he was sleeping, easiest to touch when he was sad, easiest to nuzzle when he came home exhausted and dropped his head into your lap.

Now it was just... there. Bare and beautiful and waiting.

You stepped forward, go on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to the back of his neck.

He shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and his hand came up to grip yours where it rested on his hip.

“That's not fair,” he said, and his voice was wrecked.

“I'm not trying to be fair.” You kissed him again, higher this time, at the base of his skull where the short bristles gave way to soft skin. “I'm trying to make a point.”

“And what point is that?”

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He was so warm. Always so warm, the serum running hot in his veins, and you could feel his heart beating steady and strong beneath your palms.

“The point,” you said into the fabric of his henley, “is that I love you. With hair. Without hair. In a buzz cut that makes you look like a sexy ex-con fresh out of super-soldier prison. I love you, Bucky. Not the packaging. But also—” You squeezed him tighter, felt him relax incrementally. “—the packaging is really fucking good right now, and we're going to have a conversation later about why you didn't warn me before committing an act of aesthetic terrorism on my boyfriend.”

He turned in your arms.

You were chest to chest, nose to nose, and his eyes were soft now. The insecurity had faded to something fainter, something manageable, and in its place was a warmth that made you want to curl up inside it and never leave.

“An act of aesthetic terrorism,” he repeated, and his mouth curved.

“Don't laugh. I'm serious.”

“I'm not laughing.”

“Your eyes are laughing. I can see them laughing.”

He cupped your face in both hands—flesh and metal, warm and cool, the most beautiful dichotomy you'd ever known—and tilted your head back gently. “You’re so precious. And thank you,” he said, and the words were simple but the weight behind them was enormous. “For... not hating it. For not making me feel stupid. For—”

You kissed him again. Softer this time. A promise.

“You could shave your head bald and tattoo 'Property of Hydra' on your forehead, just like you joked about that time when you got drunk on Thor’s liquor” you said against his lips, “and I would still love you. I would just also be very, very angry about it.”

He laughed—that real laugh again, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes—and pulled you into his chest. His chin rested on top of your head, and you felt more than heard the contented sigh that escaped him.

“Promise me something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

“If I ever do something stupid again—”

“When. When you do something stupid again.”

“When I do something stupid again,” he conceded, “don't let me spiral for three minutes before you tell me you like it. I was this close—” He held up his flesh hand, thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “—to calling Steve and asking if I could crash on his couch.”

“You were not.”

“I absolutely was.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and the image hit you like a freight train, your Bucky, freshly buzzed, standing in the hallway of your apartment building, phone in hand, contemplating whether his best friend would judge him for seeking sanctuary from his girlfriend's prolonged silence.

“I'm sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I should have said something sooner. I just... you broke me, Barnes. You broke my brain. I was looking at you and thinking things that are probably illegal in several states.”

His eyebrow arched. “Illegal?”

“Obscene. Lewd. The kind of thoughts that get people smited.”

He was grinning now, full and bright, and you wanted to bottle the sound he made—half laugh, half groan—and carry it with you forever.

“Smited,” he said. “That's not a word.”

“It is now. I invented it. For you.”

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didn't need words.

“I have a confession,” he said, and his voice had gone low again, the kind of low that made your toes curl against the hardwood.

“What's that?”

He reached up and ran his hand over his own head—the new gesture, the one you were rapidly becoming obsessed with—and looked at you through his lashes. “I kept a lock of it. The hair I cut off. Sam said it was weird, but I... I remembered how much you liked playing with it. And I thought maybe...” He trailed off, suddenly shy.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you'd want it. For... I don't know. A bookmark. Or a weird souvenir. Or—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Forget it. It's stupid.”

You were going to combust. Right there in the entryway of your Brooklyn apartment, wearing a worn out black t-shirt and your favorite pair of fuzzy socks, you were going to spontaneously burst into flames because James Buchanan Barnes had kept a lock of his own hair for you.

“You kept me your hair, just like a mom would do it with the first hair cut of their baby.” you said, and your voice came out strangled.

“It's in a Ziploc bag in my jacket pocket. Don't tell Sam.”

“I'm going to frame it.”

“You are not.”

“I'm going to put it in a locket and wear it around my neck like a Victorian widow mourning her soldier husband.”

“Sweetheart—”

“And every time someone asks about it, I'm going to tell them it's a relic of the man I loved before he committed an act of aesthetic—”

He kissed you.

It was the only way to shut you up, and he knew it, and you let him because his mouth was warm and his hands were steady and the short bristles of his hair tickled your palms when you reached up to touch them.

The kiss deepened.

You weren't sure who moved first—maybe both of you, maybe neither, maybe the space between you simply collapsed under the weight of everything unspoken. His back was still against the wall, but now you were pressed flush against him, every line of your body curved into every line of his, and his hands had slid from your waist to your hips, fingers digging in like he was afraid you might disappear.

“Mmhm, honey” he murmured against your mouth, and the word was barely a breath, barely a sound, but it hit you somewhere deep and aching.

Your hands were on his head again. You couldn't help it. The velvety texture of the buzz cut was addictive, and every time you dragged your palms over the short bristles, Bucky made a sound—a tiny, broken thing that seemed to surprise even him. His eyes fluttered shut. His grip tightened. His whole body seemed to lean into your touch like a plant turning toward the sun.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You really... you really like it.”

It wasn't a question. Not anymore. But there was still something wondering in his voice, something awed and almost childlike, like he couldn't quite believe what was happening.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and what you saw stole the breath from your lungs.

His face was open. Not guarded, not careful, not the mask he wore for the world. The buzz cut had stripped away more than just hair—it had stripped away the last of his defenses, the last little hiding place where he could tuck himself away from being seen. And now he was just... Bucky. Your Bucky. With his pink lips and his dark lashes and the way his chest was rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon.

“I don't just like it,” you said, and your voice came out thick. “I love it. I love the way it feels. I love the way it looks. I love that you did it because you were uncomfortable and sweaty and done with dealing with things that annoy you. I love that you're mine, Bucky Barnes. With hair. Without hair. In a Ziploc bag.”

A choked laugh escaped him. “You're never going to let that go.”

“Never.”

He reached up and cupped the back of your head, flesh hand warm against your scalp, and pulled you back into him. But this kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Less desperate and more devouring, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath, the little sound you made when his teeth grazed your lower lip.

“I love you,” he said, and the words were so quiet you almost missed them. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes. Do you know that? Do you have any idea what it's like—what it's been like—coming home to you every night? After everything? After all the things I've done and all the things that were done to me?” His forehead dropped to yours, and his breath fanned warm across your lips. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to wake up one day and realize you deserve better than a broken super-soldier with a metal arm and a hundred years of nightmares.”

“James—”

“But then you look at me like this.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light. “Like I'm something precious. Like I'm worth something. And I think... maybe. Maybe I get to have this. Maybe I get to have you.”

Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you kissed him—not to silence him, not to distract him, but because there were no words big enough for what you felt. So you poured it into the kiss instead. Into the way your fingers traced the short bristles of his hair. Into the way your body curved against his like it had been made to fit there.

He groaned—a low, helpless sound—and his hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The wall was cold against his shoulders but you were warm, so warm, and he could feel your heartbeat racing against his chest, could feel the way your breath hitched every time his metal fingers skimmed the bare skin of your lower back where your shirt had ridden up.

“You're going to kill me,” he muttered into your neck, where he'd buried his face like he couldn't get close enough. “You know that, right? Walking around looking at me like that, touching me like that, wanting me like that. I'm a dead man.”

“Good thing you're hard to kill,” you managed, and then his mouth found the spot behind your ear and you forgot how to form words entirely.

He kissed a path down the column of your throat, unhurried, reverent, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. His flesh hand tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck; his metal hand pressed flat against your spine, the cool vibranium a delicious shock against your over-warm skin. And every few seconds, he would pull back just enough to look at you—to see you, really see you—and the expression on his face was something you wanted to bottle and keep forever.

Devotion. That was the only word for it. Pure, unfiltered, slightly overwhelmed devotion.

“I was so scared,” he admitted, voice muffled against your collarbone. “Walking up the stairs. Turning the key. I kept thinking... what if she doesn't recognize me? What if she looks at me and sees a stranger? What if—”

Your fingertips tugged gently on the short bristles at the back of his head—not a pull, not really, just a reminder—and he lifted his face to meet your eyes.

“I would know you anywhere,” you said. “Blindfolded. In the dark. In a crowd of a thousand people. I would know you, Bucky. Hair or no hair. Metal arm or—” You paused, considered. “Okay, the metal arm is kind of distinctive. But you know what I mean.”

He laughed—that real laugh, the one that crinkled his eyes and shook his shoulders and made you feel like the sun had come out from behind the clouds. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He kissed you again, softer this time, and when he pulled back, his eyes were bright.

“Come here,” he said, and lifted you.

You yelped—a completely undignified sound that you would deny to your dying day—as he hauled you up by the thighs, and suddenly your legs were wrapped around his waist and your arms were locked around his neck and he was carrying you away from the wall, across the living room, past the couch with its abandoned quilt and the coffee table with its ring-stained surface and the bookshelf crammed full of paperbacks and mission reports and a single framed photograph of the two of you at Steve and Natasha’s wedding, your head thrown back in laughter, his eyes soft as he watched you.

The bedroom was dim, the last of the evening light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and grey. He laid you down on the bed like you were something fragile—something precious—and then he just... stopped.

Stood there at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing.” His voice was rough. “Just... looking.”

He reached up and ran his hand over his own head again—that new gesture, the one that was already becoming yours, the one that meant he was thinking or nervous or overcome. The short bristles caught the fading light, and you watched the way his biceps flexed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“You're staring,” you said.

“So are you.”

“Fair point.”

He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over you—braced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your face—you felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment. To the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way he looked at you like you were the first good thing he'd seen in a hundred years.

“I love you,” he said again, and this time the words came easier, like they'd been waiting to be spoken. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Each repetition was a kiss—your forehead, your nose, your chin, the corner of your mouth. Not hurried. Not frantic. Just... certain. Like he was making a promise he intended to keep.

Your hands found his head again, and you marveled at how something so simple could feel so intimate. The buzz cut meant there was nothing to hide behind. No curtain of hair to duck behind when things got too real. Just him. Just Bucky, bare and beautiful and utterly, devastatingly present.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “Even without the hair. Especially without the hair, apparently. Who knew?”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him smile against your skin.

“You're ridiculous,” he said.

“I'm yours,” you corrected him.

And when he lifted his head to kiss you again—deep and slow and full of everything he couldn't say—you felt something shift between you. Not the desperate hunger from before, but something quieter. Something deeper. The kind of love that didn't need to prove itself, that had nothing to defend and nothing to hide.

The kind that could survive anything, even a haircut like that.

Later, much later, the kind of later where the jazz upstairs had gone quiet and the city had settled into its deepest hour, and the sheets were twisted around your legs and his metal arm was cool against your bare shoulder and his flesh hand was tracing lazy patterns on your hip—you lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.

His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. Fair was fair, after all.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Mm?”

“I'm glad I cut it.”

You tilted your head to look at him, and he was beautiful in the dim light filtering through the blinds. The buzz cut made him look younger, somehow. Less burdened. Like the man he might have been if the 1940s had been kinder. A sheen of sweat still lingered on his forehead—the apartment was warm, the summer humidity doing no favors—and you reached up to brush it away without thinking.

He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and smiled.

“Because now I know,” he continued. “Even without the hair, even without the—what did you call it? 'Aesthetic'—you still look at me the same way.”

“And what way is that?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Like I'm worth something.”

You lifted your head, cupped his face in your hands—flesh and metal, warm and cool, the most beautiful dichotomy you'd ever known—and kissed him until you felt the last of the insecurity drain away.

“You're worth everything,” you said. “With hair. Without hair. Sweating like a sinner in church. In a Ziploc bag in your jacket pocket. Everything, Bucky Barnes.”

He snorted. “You're never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.”

“Good.”

He pulled you back down, tucked you against his side, and pressed one last kiss to your forehead.

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

And somewhere in the dark, the man with the buzz cut and the metal arm and the heart that had learned to love again smiled, held on tighter, and finally, finally let himself believe he was home.

Roommate!Bucky who stares at the way your tits bounce as you jump up suddenly. Remembering what you had planned for the evening. Who looks at your ass sway in those tiny fucking shorts as you rush to your room.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles all big and wide as you bring out a plastic box with a hundred different kinds of beads and charms and strings. The way your face lights up during times like this, it's almost enough to keep the dirty thoughts away.

Roommate!Bucky whose heart threatens to burst out of his chest with how hard it's beating when you take his hand and place it in your lap. so very near to your clothed cunt. so close all he'd do was curl his fingers and he'd be met with your wet, drippy heat, all ready to welcome him in.

Roommate!Bucky who enjoys the feeling of your smaller hands trying to measure the size of his wrist. He is so much bigger than you, could do so many things to you, and you'd just take them, right?

Roommate!Bucky who goes to bed that night with smooth blue and green beads clad on his wrist. Who still feels your soft touch on his, as you put the bracelet on him, telling him just how pretty he looked with it on. How it matches his eyes just right.

Roommate!Bucky who takes the bracelet off, the beads rolling on his skin, before putting it back on--the smooth glass sliding with ease.

Roommate!Bucky who sheds away his boxers, kicking them off to somewhere towards the end of his bed.

Roommate!Bucky who takes off the bracelet yet again, only to place it on top of his hard cock, coating the beads in the precum that leaked out.

Roommate!Bucky who rolls the bracelet up and down, the sensation of the glass pressing in against his throbbing cock making his eyes roll back into his head.

Roommate!Bucky who laughs at how this bracelet was especially made for him, how you made it with so much love, just to make him cum tonight.

Roommate!Bucky who looks at the way the string threatens to snap when he reaches the base, the bracelet too small to fully take him all in.

Roommate!Bucky who cums harder than he's ever before and paints the blue and green in thick, hot spurts of white. Looking at the sticky mess for a long time, before deciding to let it stay like that, not wiping away the remnants of his feed.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles and hugs you the next morning, showering you with praises about your pretty blue dress, sliding the bracelet on your wrist.

"Just fits so good, angel."

yes i know this isn't a fic and it doesn't make sense. This was written in 15 minutes and with no intention to actually make sense. I'm still tagging everyone cus... it's bucky hehe🤭🤭

The weather app had become the first thing you checked in the morning since Summer started. Every day it landed somewhere in the 90’s and every day you hopped it would go back to 70 and sunny, but it didn’t. 

You didn’t necessarily mind the heat; it was just getting increasingly difficult to stop yourself from spending all day wearing basically nothing to combat it. 

You put your phone down with a sigh and stood up to get ready for the day. Your apartment had been mostly silent, but you could hear the faint sound of music in the kitchen, meaning Bucky was up and trying not to wake you. 

Bucky Barnes. He had been your new roommate this year, and your feelings were…mixed. He was unbelievably kind, always the first to reach for something on the top shelf or offer to fix something of yours if it broke. The issue was that he was unbelievably sexy. He would walk around without a shirt; it was his apartment, after all, but he was hard not to stare at. He always had girls over as well. He could never seem to keep one for more than a week, though. 

It was your sophomore year of college, and your freshman year roommate, Wanda, had begged you to continue living with her once you moved out of the dorms. Neither of you could afford a two-bedroom, and the rest of your friends had already found a place to live. Wanda's boyfriend, Sam, said he and his freshman year roommate also needed a place to stay, so you all decided to live together. 

You and Bucky had only met once prior, and he was charming as ever. It was at a party, and you were both a little drunk. He had gotten you a drink and spent the night making sure you were safe since many of their friends had come up to flirt with you, but at the end of the night, he left with a different girl. 

You didn’t think much of him, though yes, he was hot and gentlemanly, but that was it, and it surely wasn’t enough to risk making your living situation awkward since you’d likely be living with him the rest of college. Since moving in together, you guys have gotten closer. Wanda and her boyfriend spent most of their time locked away in her room, so occasionally you and Bucky would watch a movie or study together, and it was nice bonding with him. You both had similar interests to talk about, but you wouldn’t consider him your best friend by any means. 

You were both spending the summer at your apartment, you had work, and he had taken up summer classes, but Wanda and Sam had already left about a week ago. It was nice just being the two of you. The mornings were filled with comfortable silence as you guys worked around each other to make breakfast and coffee before leaving for the day. At night, you guys would catch up on your days and occasionally eat dinner while watching a show together. 

You put on a tiny gray tank top, it was too hot for a bra, and you kept on your sleep shorts before brushing your hair and teeth and making your way into the kitchen. 

“Morning, Bucky,” you said softly from behind him. He jumped a little, not hearing your footsteps over the music

“Morning, Doll. I’m sorry, did I wake you? I tried to keep it low,” he said with a worried frown. You shook your head. Goosebumps went down your spine when he called you that, doll. His voice was so soft yet commanding, like he knew saying it made you buckle at the knees. 

“No, I’ve been up. I have off work today, so I laid in bed a little longer,” you shrugged. You made your way over to the side of the counter he was at and stopped yourself next to him. You reached up over your head to grab a mug, and your shirt lifted slightly. You could feel his eyes on your skin. 

You always felt his eyes on you like that. You were attractive, you’ve always known that, and Bucky…well, judging by the number of girls he had over you knew he was a man with needs. You never thought much of it, though; he never made a move, and it was never that serious. 

As you grabbed a mug, he immediately took it from your fingers and poured the coffee from the freshly brewed pot into your mug. He added three sugars and walked to the fridge to grab your hazelnut creamer, which he then poured in the perfect amount you like. You thanked him softly, and he hummed as he handed it back to you. You felt his eyes drift towards your chest; it was obvious you had on no bra, and he cleared his throat. 

“So what are you doing with your day off then?” he turned his back to you as he continued cooking up his breakfast 

“Probably go for a swim, it’s hot as a motherfucker” he chuckled 

“Tell me about it.”

“You’re welcome to join. I’m not sure how much homework you have, but I could use the company. I would have invited Jesse, but he’s busy.” 

He froze for a moment, then spoke up a little louder than he had been previously. “You’re still seeing that guy?” you shrugged 

“Less seeing, more hanging out. He’s nice but…” You stopped yourself short. But he wasn’t as good as you imagined Bucky to be in bed…and you imagined Bucky often, usually with your fingers between your legs. 

Bucky turned to you with an eyebrow raised, “But what?”

“But nothing. He’s nice, and that's it,” you sipped your coffee. “What? Are you jealous?” you said teasingly. 

Bucky scoffed, but turned his head. “You wish,” you both chuckled, then sat in silence. Like always, it was comfortable as you watched him cook.  He finished scrambling the eggs and grabbed the bacon out of the oven, and grabbed two plates. He plated up the food and set the purple plate in front of you, then took a seat next to you with his red plate. 

There was a perfect amount of food on each plate, like he had planned to eat with you. “You know you don’t have to make me breakfast.” This time, he shrugged and took a bite of the bacon. 

“If I don’t, God knows when you’ll eat.”

You roll your eyes, “I don’t strave, I just don’t really like breakfast’

“You like it when I make it.” You did like it when he made it. 

When the two of you finished, Bucky stood up and brought the plates to the sink. You liked that he cooked. You loved that he cleaned. “So are you coming to the pool or what?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but then he turned his head to you. “Yeah, I just have some homework to finish, but I’ll meet you there.” You smiled at him, but before you could respond, he dropped the plate and got dishwasher on your shirt. “Aw man,” he groaned, a beautiful groan, and immediately pulled his shirt off. 

Well, you definitely didn’t need the pool to get wet

...

About an hour later, you found yourself lying stomach down on a pool chair at your apartment pool. You were wearing a small cheetah-print bikini. The top covered nothing, and the bottoms covered even less, and you thank your lucky stars that only college kids really lived here. You weren’t in the mood to get scolded by someone's mother. 

You were hoping Bucky would be in the kitchen to see you before you left, but he had been hard at work in his room. You had been down at the pool for about 20 minutes when he finally joined. 

You hadn’t heard him; the music in your headphones was too loud, but you felt his presence. You looked up, and he was already looking down at you. “Jesus, Bucky, how long have you been there!” 

He cleared his throat, his ears a little pink, and he looked away. “U-uh, I just got here. I said hi.” You smiled and sat up 

“Sorry,” you pointed to the headphones, which you had now taken out of your ear. Now that your heart rate had calmed down, you finally looked at him. It took everything in you not to bite your lip and moan. He had on black swim trunks that were honestly a little tight, and his abs looked like they were carved from stone. You averted your eyes quickly. “Now that you're down here, can you do me a favor?”

His eyes met yours. If you hadn’t known any better, he was staring at your boobs while you were staring at his. “Yeah, what’s up, Doll?”

“Well, no one else was here to do it. Could you put sunscreen on my back?” he paused, but he nodded, looking a little hesitant. You thanked him and handed him the cream. 

You turned around and moved your hair to the side. A moment later, you felt Bucky’s hands work on your back. The cream was cold, and his hands were so rough you couldn’t help but let out a small moan. You hoped he didn’t hear it, but it was Bucky, and he never missed anything. 

Under his breath, he let out a shaky huff that you didn’t hear, and if you had turned around, you would have been able to see his eyes had gone a little wide. He continued to rub the sunscreen into your back, his tongue jutting out of the corner of his mouth a little as he concentrated on the dips and curves of you.

Unsurprisingly, this simple task took longer than it should have, and neither of you minded. You enjoyed the way his hands felt on your skin; he already knew how well to touch you, and he had only been applying sunscreen. Bucky just enjoyed touching you. His skin against yours, beyond ‘accidental’ touches in the kitchen, where a dream come true for him, not that you knew that. 

“Done,” Bucky said, disappointed, and you turned around to see he was a little red in the face. 

You smiled at him kindly, “Want me to get you? You already seem a little red.” You chuckled, and so did he 

“I u-uh, I did it upstairs,” you nodded, and he smiled. “Are you going to get in the pool?” he asked, his confidence coming back quickly.

“Soon. I want to tan first.” 

He nodded, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m going to take a few laps, so join me whenever.” You smiled and nodded as you lay yourself down, now on your back. 

You watched as Bucky made his way into the pool. God, he was gorgeous. You wondered what he looked like dripping. When his lower half was in the water, he turned to you. If it weren’t for your sunglasses, he would have known you were watching him intently. But with the way your legs were pressed together, looking for friction, he knew. 

His smile turned devilish as he maneuvered his hand to splash you with water. It wasn’t enough, only getting your legs, but you sat up and gasped, “Bucky!!” 

“Sorry, Doll. Did I get you wet?” his grin got bigger, and you rolled your eyes

“Go take your laps, asshole.” he blew you a kiss and submerged the rest of his body under water. 

You watched for a while as he swam around, any excuse to exercise, you guess. For you, it was any excuse to see his back muscles. God, did they look while he swam. You felt yourself grow increasingly turned on as you watched him. 

After a little while, he made his way back over to you. He put his hands on the edge of the pool and pulled himself up. His abs were glistening and dripping, his swim trunks stuck to his thighs well enough that you could see the outline of him, and his hair was perfectly messy. As he sat on the edge, he ran a hand through his hair and turned to you. “Still not ready to join me?”

“You just got out,” he chuckled and lowered his lower half back in 

“What do you mean?” you rolled your eyes. “Hey, could you pass me my sunglasses?

You take your headphones out of your ears and set them aside as you grabbed his sunglasses and made your way over to him. You bent down to hand them to him, but as he went to grab them, he grabbed your hand instead and pulled you in. 

You landed underwater for a split second, but Bucky pulled your upper body back up and into his arms. “Bucky!!” You heard him chuckle as you caught your breath. He pushed your hair off your face and behind your ear. He didn’t let go as he pulled you closer to his chest, one arm around your waist. 

“I wanted you to join me, don’t be mad, Doll.”

“What if I couldn’t swim?” his face dropped with worry

“Can you not swim?”’

You rolled your eyes. “I can, but what if I couldn’t?” You wiggled your way out of his arms, which was hard considering the tight grip he had on you, and he smiled at you softly. 

“Then I would have saved you.”

“My hero,” you said sarcastically. You weren’t upset; you had planned to swim anyway, you were just shocked. He apologized softly and pulled you closer to him. “Do you play pool games?”

“Pool games?”

“Yeah, Wanda and I usually play mermaids,” you smiled as he chuckled softly. 

“No, I don’t play mermaids, Doll.”

You shrugged, “Your loss.” You guys stood there silently for a moment. Then you decided to get revenge. You brought your arm back as far as you could and then maneuvered it to splash him with as much water as possible. You chuckled as he tried to cover his face, but it was too late. 

“Oh, that’s how you want to play, huh?” he smiled, then splashed you back. You giggled as the fight intensified. As you were gearing up to splash him back, he grabbed both your wrists in one hand and used his other to pull you close. “Nuh uh.”

“What are you gonna do about it, Barnes?” you smirked, bringing your head closer,  and suddenly it was over for him. 

“This,” he said softly as he leaned in to kiss you. You were taken aback, and he almost pulled away when you didn’t kiss back, but as he let your wrists go, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. 

He melted into you quickly, and the kiss grew deeper. You ran your fingers through his hair and tugged lightly at the ends, causing him to moan. He grabbed the backs of your thighs and wrapped your legs around him. You didn’t notice, because of how light you felt in the water, but he has been backing you up slowly until your back hit the wall softly. 

You pulled away for air. “Fuck.” you said softly, but Bucky’s lips didn’t want to leave you for even a second. His lips started to attack your neck, and you moaned, causing him to hum against you. “Bucky, that feels good,” he continued to leave a trail of kisses on your neck as he made his way towards your chest. He lifted one arm, his hand coming to trace your nipple through the very thin fabric of your bikini, and finally, he pulled away for a moment.

“This fucking bathing suit,” he pulled at the string, but quickly returned his finger back to your nipple, and you moaned, “Had me fucking out of breath when I saw you.” he kissed you roughly, then pulled away again. “I mean, you’re wearing basically nothing. You have no idea how fucking hard I got when I got downstairs and saw you. Then you asked me to put sunscreen on you.” he pulled at your nipple, and you moaned out. He switched his fingers to the other nipple. “Fuck Doll, anyone could have seen you wearing this shit, but only I got ot touch you.”

“I wore it for you, Bucky.” his eyes darkened when you said that, and he immediately went to kiss you again. Harder, more rushed, like he needed it to survive. The fingers that had been playing with your nipples made their way down towards your bikini bottoms. “What if someone sees?”

“Everyone is home for the summer,” he assured you, “And if someone did see, all they would see would be me taking care of my. fucking. girl.” You bit your lip when he said that. 

His fucking girl. You were. From the moment you met him, you knew you were doomed. A finger slipped under the fabric, making circles around your clit. “Please, Bucky, I need you.”

“I’ve fucking wanted to do this since the night I met you, but you were too into that fucking Jesse guy-” 

You cut him off. “I’m not anymore,” you reassured him. “I-i’m your fucking girl.”

He grinned wider than he ever had. “He could never fuck you how I could,” Bucky spoke under his breath. Mostly to himself. 

Without warning, he shoved two fingers inside of you roughly, and you cried out so loudly that whoever was home definitely heard. “Bu-bucky fuck”

“I love hearing you say my name.” his fingers worked faster, and his lips made their way back to your neck.

Your head lolled back, and your fingers continued to tug at his hair whenever he hit your spot just right. “Feels so fucking good.”

He pulled back, but his fingers continued, “I’ve thought about fucking you all over the fucking house. On the kitchen counter, the couch, your bed, mine, hell, even Wanda and Sam’s beds. Anytime you'd come out in tiny shorts, or one of my fucking shirts you stole for the laundry.” he closed his eyes, imagining it,  “I’d have to go to my room and fuck my hand and whisper your name so you didn’t hear me.”

You clenched around him. You were close, so fucking close. 

“I think about you, too, Bucky, all the time,” he groans. He pushed his leg on yours so you can feel how fucking hard he is. God, you weren’t ready for him to be inside of you. You knew he was huge, but feeling him made you nervous. 

“See what you do to me. Always have. Always been mine,” he added a third finger, and you choked on air. “I heard you,” you looked at him, confused, “When you had a guy over a few weeks ago.” he bit his lips as you tightened around his fingers. “I hear you fucking moan. I fucked myself to your sounds, but then you said my fucking name and I came fucking everywhere.”

You knew the walls were thin, especially since you two shared a wall. You had heard him many times during sex, and you’ve gotten off to it. This time he’s speaking about…you thought he wasn’t home. “Bu-bucky”

“Yeah, baby, let me hear you say my name when you come. Let me see it this time. Please,” he was begging you, and you loved it. You closed your eyes as you felt the knot in your lower stomach. “Look at me, Doll.”

You forced your eyes open as you came on his fingers. “Bucky! Fuck feels so good, Bucky.” You came harshly, and his name left your lips like a prayer as you did.  When you calmed down, Bucky lifted you up out of the pool. “What are you doing?” You stood up quickly, although your legs were wobbly

He lifted himself out and quickly grabbed your belongings, then with his free arm, he lifted you up over his shoulder. “I’m going to show you how much I fucking wanted this.”

He started walking back to the building. You guys lived on the third floor, and Bucky decided the elevator would have taken too long, so with you and all your belongings in hand, he took you up all three flights of stairs. 

When you got back to the apartment, he didn’t even lock the door behind you; he immediately had you up against a wall and his lips on yours. 

The kiss was nasty, animalistic. One hand roamed your body, and the other went to your hair and pulled softly. You moaned into him, and he jutted his hips against you. “Need to be inside of you,” he said as he pulled away. He lifted you up and set you on the kitchen counter. The cold counter stung against your skin. 

His hands worked quickly to pull the top of your bikini off. “So fucking perfect, Doll. Fucking everything I imagined,” you groaned

“Bucky, I need you. Please”

“I’ve got you, baby.” he ran a hand along your cheek and then pulled your bikini bottoms off. He quickly took his swim trunks off as well, and your eyes immediately went down. Fuck. Your pussy grew wetter, and your heart beat faster. 

He pumped himself a few times, and then slowly pushed into you. “So tight,” he groaned, and he wasn’t even halfway in. “You take me so fucking good, sweet girl,” he pulled back slowly, and this time, without warning, he pushed himself all the way in. You cried out as he started fucking you relentlessly on the counter. “You’re a fucking dream come true, baby.” 

“Faster, Bucky p-please,” he did as he was told and almost fucked you into the counter. You could barely form words; everything felt so good. So right. You were a moaning mess, and all you wanted to do was tell him how pretty he was. 

“I should have fucked you the day we moved in,” he huffed. “It was hot and just the two of us, and you were in a tight shirt, and I almost lost my mind.” His eyes were glued to where the two of you met, watching himself pump in and out of you, stretching you so good. The apartment was filled with the sound of skin slapping and your moans. 

“You should have Bucky. Fuck. I wish you did.” You tightened around him, “Wanted you so bad.”

He looked up at you. “You have me now, babydoll. ‘M all yours,” you gasped for air. “Come for me. Come on my cock.”

That was all you needed to become a mess on him, moaning his name and cuss words with no thought. He fucked you through your orgasm, and his followed quickly as your name fell from his mouth like it would be his last words. 

As you both breathed heavily, he placed his forehead against yours, but he didn’t pull out. “You’re so beautiful.”

You smiled and leaned in, your lips barely touching. “So are you.”

He smiled against your lips. “I meant it. I’ve wanted to do this for a while. Like you’ve been mine since I met you. Maybe this summer we can try…we can try and form something new?”

“A summer fling?” 

He shook his head, “Maybe something more?”

“Something more,” you said softly, but you smiled against him, and that was all he needed to lean in and kiss you softly.

soft!dom!bucky who knows you're concerned about taking advantage of his generosity. your first instinct when buying anything is to reach for your own money because you realize how it could look to the outside world; a younger woman with an older guy that makes more money using his card to buy your coffee even gives you 'sugar daddy vibes', so you can only imagine what the women at your local salon think when bucky whips out his card after you've just spent an hour getting your nails done.

soft!dom!bucky who couldn't give less of a shit about how it looks to other people. he wants to take care of you, doesn't like it when you spend your own money on things when you know how much he craves providing for you - but he'll never direct that negativity towards you. he also doesn't blame you, he knows it's not your fault that you've been on your own for so long and haven't been able to rely on much of anyone, so you're not used to someone being so ready and willing to buy you that dress you saw at the mall but didn't end up getting because you looked at the price tag and wanted to cry.

soft!dom!bucky who will hold your hips and stare into your eyes as he reminds you that you have his card in your wallet before you leave for your girls night, insisting that he treat you and your friends to a nice evening. you've finally found your footing in brooklyn, made a few work-friends that turned into an actual friendship, and bucky wants to foster those relationships for you because he knows how much you need and crave them. despite wanting to be the one you go to first for any troubles you have, he also wants you to have others to lean on, and he wants you to have a support system in place in case he, for some rare reason, can't be there right away.

soft!dom!bucky who goes all out for holidays and your birthday. he won't just give you a simple card and a few gift cards and call it a day, he investigates for a solid month beforehand to find out what you really want. he'll go through your carts on various websites you visit, will rifle through your bath products and makeup and figure out what you're low on and what you're missing so that he can go out and get the actual products, not just a gift card to get them yourself. by the time the day comes, you have a small mountain of gifts that bucky is just dying to see you open, loves the way you light up when you unwrap the final book of the series you're currently invested in, secretly craves the little kiss you give him after each present.

soft!dom!bucky who spoils you with not just money, but praise as well. he figured out pretty early on in your relationship that you don't really know how to take compliments well, always getting shy and giggly and deflecting so that the topic moves on without you spiraling over the fact that you don't feel like you deserve it. bucky has made it his life's mission to lather on the praise until you finally believe him, and then continue to do so even after. you deserve to hear how beautiful you are, how perfect you are for him, how smart and kind and funny you are. you're just an amazing person, and bucky wants you to know and believe that.

soft!dom!bucky who spoils you sexually. any new thing you want to try, bucky has already bought various toys to make sure you have the best experience. he's probably bought you too much lingerie, but that's only because he loves seeing you all dolled up for him, and it makes you feel good about yourself. you feel sexy when you put on a new set, wandering out of the bathroom to see your dom sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and full of hunger as he tells you to do a little twirl, show me how beautiful you look, lemme see your ass, lemme just get a taste of your tits through the lace. he will always carefully undress you, though he does enjoy cutting your panties off of your body, eyes following the way your chest rises and falls when the underwear is tossed aside, a sweet and sultry thank you, daddy, following each orgasm he gives you.

Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.

Pissing you off.

You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that  Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.

How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.

You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.

A very shiny fly.

You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t  remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.

It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.

And Barnes.

He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.

But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.

And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.

You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.

“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”

Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.

“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”

“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”

“But- You don’t actually believe that-“

“Yes, I do.”

Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”

That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.

You ignored it.

You were going to get very good at that.

“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.

“You hate everyone-“

“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”

Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”

“You’re still looking at me-“

“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“

“Not like that-“

“Like what?”

“Like you- You don’t believe me.”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.

“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.

Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“

“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”

He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“

“It’s not.”

It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.

He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.

After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.

“We work well together-“

“No we don’t.”

“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“

“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”

Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.

It made you want to throttle him more.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.

Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.

You had to rip your gaze away.

“Shut up.”

He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.

When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose. 

He always smelled so good.

And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.

He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.

The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.

You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.

The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.  

“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”

You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.

“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.

Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”

You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.

“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”

“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”

Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.

“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.

When Bucky looked at you, a lot of  coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.

“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”

You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”

“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“

“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.

Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.

“You want this?”

“The-“

“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”

You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.

An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.

Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

You scoffed. “Please-“

“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”

“I know fun.”

“Uh huh-“

“Stop doing that, I do-“

“Never seen you have it.”

“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”

You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.

“James-“

“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“

He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.

You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.

But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.

You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.

It’s better, really. Not to think about why.

Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.

All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.

You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.

You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.

“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.

“I can go myself.”

Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I carry pepper spray-“

“That’s not enough.”

You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”

Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”

“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“

“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”

You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.

“What-“

“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“

“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”

That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.

“Fuck you, James-“

“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”

You paused.

Fuck, that was a good point.

You hated it when he made good points.

“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”

Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.

You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.

“No. I’m goin’ with you.”

You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”

“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”

You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.

He knew you.

You hated him.

“Fuck you.”

“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”

You blinked. “Wha-“

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.

He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.

You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.

Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.

Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.

Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.

They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.

“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”

But you don’t make bad choices.

Ever.

You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.

Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.

“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.

“Hi.”

“You got the homework for public speaking?”

“Yes.”

Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”

“It’s online, James.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.

He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.

“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You cross your arms. “Did you.”

“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”

“If I wanted… Help?”

Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”

You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.

“I don’t need your help.”

He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.

You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.

“Maybe I need your help?”

“You always need my help.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“You wanna come over Thursday?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll go to you-“

“I’m working Thursday.”

Bucky paused. “You got a job?”

You nodded. He frowned.

“Where?”

“Corner store.”

His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“

“You’re working late, it’s not-“

“I’ve been fine.”

“But what about when you’re not-“

“But I am-“

“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.

It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.

“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“

“Why do you care.”

Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.

“What corner store.” He grunts.

“Fifth and twenty, why-“

“We’re studying while you work.”

Your mouth fell open. “No-“

“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”

“I can kick you out-“

“You won’t.”

He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.

You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.

You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.

He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.

Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.

You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.

He made you giggle.

You hate him for that, too.

And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.

Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.

Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.

You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.

Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.

You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.

“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.

Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.

It is not fine.

Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.

But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.

It’s Sam.

You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.

You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.

And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.

“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”

You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.

Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.

“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”

You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.

There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.

“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”

And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.

“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.

Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”

You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.

“You know, I still got homework.”

You frowned up at him. “Okay.”

Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”

“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.

He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-

“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”

You blinked.

Oh.

“Yeah. I do.”

Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”

And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.

Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.

“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.

“I am tired.”

“You been eating enough?”

“I’m eating right now-“

“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.

It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.

That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.

 “I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.

Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”

Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.

Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.

It felt different now. It felt like it matters. 

You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.

He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.

Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.

You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.

The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.  

“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.

“Where do you think he is- Nat-“

She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.

You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.

Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.

You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.

He finds you first.

“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”

You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.

“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“

“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”

“I-“

“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”

“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.

Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.

“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”

“I needed to drop something off.”

Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.

“You’re not stayin’?”

“I- I don’t-“ 

You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.

“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”

Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.

“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”

“Come- James-“

You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.

Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.

“You’re drunk, be careful-“

“’M not that drunk.”

“You’re slurring-“

“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.

“You’re here.”

He says it like he can’t believe it.  Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.

You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.

It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.

“James-“

“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.

The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.

“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”

He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”

“I- Um-“

“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”

There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.

“James-“

“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”

Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.

“What?” You squeak.

He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.

“I call your name when I have sex.”

“I- I- Why-“

“’Cause I love you.”

“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.

You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.

But now he’s saying this.

And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.

Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.

You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“I do.”

“You’re drunk-“

“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”

“James-“

“Hmm.”

He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”

You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“

“I liked workin’ you up.”

“That’s mean.”

“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”

You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“

“But I mean it.”

“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”

He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”

“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.

“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”

You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.

The challenge.

Why do you care.

Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-

Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.

Your body moves.

Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“

Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.

Really kissing.

The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.

Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.

This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.

Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

“Ja- James-“

“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”

“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.

Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.

And who are you to tell him no?

“Oh- Okay- Oh!”

Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.

“No bra, hm?”

“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“

“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”

He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”

“N- No-“

Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.

“Wha- What’re you doing-“

“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.

Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.

“Bucky, please-“

“Please what?”

He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.

“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”

And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.

What you want him to do.

You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.

“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.

Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.

“You didn’t, huh.”

You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.

You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.

Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.

“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”

“You- You don’t know what I need-“

Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.

“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”

God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.

Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.

But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.

“No touching.”

He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.

“You’re touching-“

“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”

He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.

“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“

There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.

“Fuck- James-“

Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.

“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”

You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.

Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.

“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“

You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.

“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”

You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“

“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”

He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.

“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“

You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.

“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”

Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.

Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.

“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”

Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.

“I- I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”

You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.

“Bucky- Fuck-“

Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.

“No touching.”

You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.

And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.

Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.

His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“

“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”

Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.

“Eyes stay on me.”

He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.

“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”

You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.

“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”

You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.

He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.

“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”

He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.

“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.

You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.

You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.

Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.

“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”

You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.

The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.

“Buh- Bucky-“

“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”

“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.

A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”

“Do it again.”

It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.

But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-

“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”

Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.

“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”

He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.

“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.

Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.

“And?”

You blink at him through the tears. “And?”

“What are you?”

Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.

“Two fingers.” He reminds you.

And just like that, you cave.

“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“

“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“

“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“

Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”

You moan. “Yes, oh-  Oh my god- “

Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.

“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”

Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.

You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.

“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”

You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“

“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”

“Nuh- No-“

“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.

“Mmmm-“

“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”

You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.

“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.

Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.

“Flip over.” He grunts.

You frown. “Wha-“

“Over. Just-“

Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.

A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.

“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

“James-“

“Please.”

His voice cracks.

You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.

You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.

“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”

Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.

“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”

He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.

“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“

Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“

It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.

“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.

He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.

“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”

“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”

“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.

“Yeah. You are.”

And if Bucky says you are, you are.

He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”

“’S- ‘S a lot-“

“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”

He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.

Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.

“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”

You keen, and Bucky laughs.

“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”

You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.

“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”

“I- Jaaames-“

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”

You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.

“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.

“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.

“Can’t- Can’t take it-“

“Yeah, you can.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“

Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.

“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“

You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.

“Wh- Where-“

“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“

Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.

You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.

And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.

Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.

“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.

 You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.

“Perfect.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

You giggle. “Yeah.”

Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.

“You’re were perfect too.”

“Thanks.” You breathe.

He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.

“You still want me to take it back?”

And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.

“No, thank you.”

Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“

“I had manners-“

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“

“Don’t hold your breath-“

He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.

“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”

And you wonder.

If it had really been there, the whole time.

“Okay.”

✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Five highly-trained assassins and a Bob walk into a bar and it becomes apparent to them that they seriously needed to go back to the drawing board with their plan of attack.

What was supposed to be a standard recon mission with moderate to heavy security on the exclusive bar they've been observing for the past two months became a really ugly, bloody battle where they were ambushed by black ops that spawned from nearly every direction.

Yelena had gotten intel on a potent form of mdma being smuggled by an international pharmaceutical company and selling it to exclusive night clubs all around Europe run by Hugo LaForteza, a Spanish crime syndicate with ties to organized crime. That same pharmaceutical company has tried burying their sketchy past of producing biological weapons and super soldier serum made from scratch before Thanos' snap and instead dabbling into the production of drugs after nightclubs rose to popularity again after everyone returned from being Blipped.

Now, a couple years later they were still up and running and over 40 people have been reported missing all over Europe. The rest of them managed to locate the warehouse where the victims were kept before they were set free and were sent home to their families

Now that the company had been exposed, they've done a good job at covering their tracks and hiding in plain sight. It was only the beginning. Ava, Yelena, and Bucky scouted potential hideouts, safehouses, certain covert routes the supply trucks have been taking to move the products, cross-referencing bank transfers and purchases to off-shore bank accounts containing billions of laundered money. Meanwhile, John weaselled his way into federal databases, built profiles against a hundred men and women who have been involved with the human trafficking scandal. Alexei has been revamping the Avengers brand by spending several hours a day on ms paint designing new avengers merch and arguing with vendors on Amazon when the set of hoodies and shirts he ordered two weeks ago came looking like someone taking a remedial Home Economics class sewed them together.

Meanwhile, Bob has been working in the background, making everyone cups of coffee that had been too watered down, too strong, or too sweet during long, intense nights of work. He went out one afternoon and purchased several cookbooks containing recipes for meals from around the world and promised the rest of the team that their long streak of ordering takeout every night was over because he would be the one cooking for them. So far, there had been no complaints, Bob had become an excellent cook.

After a year's worth of hunting down and investigating leads they finally took to the streets and began taking down nightclubs, bars, and raves from inside out. Flushing out the wealthy and loyal clientele to get closer to shutting down all the suppliers and manufacturers across Europe. They went in strong and took down Berlin, then Ibiza, followed by Rome, Belgrade, then Amsterdam.

And through it all there had been a consistent theme.

Bucky had a habit of disappearing every now and then, usually during the crack of dawn and then coming back a couple of days later with a harsh tan that Alexei had made abundantly clear suited him.

"You could pass off as summer catalogue model! All you need is coconut oil! Take off your shirt, give people what they want!"

John's mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, asking the rest of them if they knew why Bucky kept disappearing every now and then. Ava quickly brushed him off, claiming that he should worry less about Bucky and more about the fact that his shield's only use to him now is to hold lettuce, meat, cheese, and beans. With the matter getting increasingly pressing caused by their own detective work, the rest of the team was itching to find the real reason behind it. There had been multiple accounts in which John had attempted to ask Bucky about it, only for him to be pulled away by either Ava or Yelena unceremoniously. Or other instances where John managed to corner Bucky in the kitchen and ask him about it, only for him to deflect the question or glance at him and walk out like it was nothing.

Yelena did the math. Bucky left every three to four months, his trips lasting either three days or a week and there was no in between. She kept a journal where she would write entries regarding Bucky's unusual absences, possible theories as to why, and if he had been double crossing them- a list of how they would kick him out of the team. So far the list has been empty.

A week later after another night of endless tossing and turning in her shared bedroom with Ava when they were in Amsterdam- she swears she hears the door down the hall click as if somebody closed it from the outside. Then, after dismissing it as nothing, she sees a shadow swiftly pass by the gap the door had to the floor. She sits up. Ava, being the heavy sleeper she was, did not notice Yelena quietly slip out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She is startled by the figure of John in his pajamas standing by the window, who clearly has just woken up about 10 seconds ago and dragged himself out of bed without giving two shits about the fact that anybody from a mile away could see the outline of where drool had once pooled by the side of his mouth. "Jesus Walker, what the hell are you doing??? You look like a pervert." She hissed, narrowing her eyes at him before he placed a finger to his lips and shushed her aggressively.

"It's Bucky, pretty sure I just caught him in the act." He says, jerking his neck to the side, beckoning Yelena over to the window. She plodded towards him and lo and behold, there stood Bucky with his knapsack slung around his shoulders, his hands busy with untying the busted boat they rented that was currently floating in the canal. "Nearly missed the sound of his bedroom door close because of Alexei's snoring. I swear he could level this apartment if he wanted to."

"Where is he off to now?" Yelena asks, albeit somewhat rhetorically.

John clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I've got no clue. Who knows what's going on inside that man’s head?"

“A black and white 24-hour montage of him and Sam with a Mariah Carey song in the background?” Yelena replies under her breath, causing John to laugh through his nose.

“I was gonna say the same thing-”

"-what are you two doing by the window???" Ava's voice grumbled all of a sudden, causing Yelena and John to whirl their heads around. "You do realize it's too early to stare at murky canal water, right?"

Yelena makes a face at her. "Wh- that isn't what we're doing."

"Well then what's got you two staring out the window for???"

"Bucky's out by the dock, I'm convinced he's headed to the quinjet to pull a Houdini on us again." John explained, peering out of the window once more as he pointed at a spot on the glass pane. Ava walks over, Yelena makes room for her as all three of them watch Bucky stand by the boat, talking to somebody on his burner phone. Muffled segments of the conversation could be heard from the slim aperture the window had to the windowsill. Words like "be right there" and "they don't know" were heard, which made all three of them exchange glances of suspicion.

"Who is he even talking to?" Ava asks them. "D'you guys got any ideas?"

"There's no way it could be Sam..." John began quietly, making Yelena and Ava furrow their brows as they turned to him. "Right?” He supplements.

"Too soon. You heard him when he came back from Louisiana, he sounded like someone gutted his cat."

“Why can’t I just crack the window open??? It would make more sense to just call Bucky from up here-” John wonders, extending his arm to open the window before Yelena and Ava stop him.

“-Don't open the window!” She and Ava hiss, startling John.

“Fine! Alright!” He exclaimed, almost scandalized. "So who else has he got on speed dial? Do you think it's still Congressman shit?"

"He sent that resignation letter ages ago."

"It's definitely not Valentina."

"What about that assistant of hers? Me- Melissa? What was even happening with them when we were in New York?"

Ava makes an unimpressed sound. "I don't know, but I'm not interested in finding out anything about that dynamic at all."

"Get your head out of the gutter, Ava."

“Wait, who are we talking about?" Bob suddenly spoke up from behind them making all three of them flinch once more, causing a commotion. Yelena grabs the hem of Bob's pajama shirt and yanks him to the floor as the rest of them fit themselves underneath the window, terrified that Bucky might've heard them in the scuffle.

"Jesus, we seriously gotta tie a church bell around you or something." John scowled in between Ava and Bob. "He's too quiet."

"Thank you?" Bob chuckles, baffled, in between Yelena and John.

“We didn't hear him at all.”

Yelena sighed, craning her neck to take a peek at Bucky once more before sinking back down on the floor resembling a sack of flour. "Ava go look, I'm not looking."

Ava snaps her head to look at her. "Why am I doing it?"

“Because,” Yelena began, widening her eyes and raising her shoulders to accentuate her point. “-Because you’re the only one out of all of us who can go invisible.”

Ava screws her face even tighter. “Is that your only argument to get me to do something none of you want to do?"

“The situation kind of warrants stealth though.” John appends, coming to Yelena's rescue in which he is recognized for.

“Exactly!”

Ava wasn’t happy about the idea of having to phase this early in the morning but does so without any more protest. Her eyes screw shut and in the blink of an eye she becomes invisible, they see a little iridescent shimmer where her body was supposed to be as the meager amount of sunlight piercing through the heavy clouds floating over Amsterdam hits her invisible form. A second later she reappears as a mechanical whirring could be heard from outside.

“He's ready to leave, the boat's acting up again though.” Ava reports as the rest of them scramble to get on their knees and look outside the window where Bucky could be seen at odds with the motor of the boat, pulling the cord repeatedly until he yanks it too far and the boat engine roars to life.

“Soooo,” Ava prolonged. “Are we gonna do something about it or-”

“-What's Bucky even doing down there?-”

“-Planning to go on a ride around the canal-”

“-he is? But Bucky doesn't even like riding boats let alone that piece of junk-”

“-we were kidding, we obviously don't know shit-”

“-huh, coulda fooled me-”

“-Again if we just open the window-”

“-We're not opening the window!-”

“Look, we can't just go in blind and demand an answer out of him, we gotta have a plan.” Yelena fought, eyeing John whose mouth opened. “and it can't be you cornering Bucky expecting him to tell you the truth.”

“It was worth a shot.” John hissed. “Besides, I haven't seen any of you try and get the truth outta him.”

“That's like picking a fight with fucking optimus prime, do you want to get your throat to get crushed like an empty soda can?” Ava argues, glancing up at John as he glances outside of the window again.

Bob reaches up to turn the rusted knob of the window as the rest stare at him in horror. "You know what?, instead of us sitting here and guessing why don't I just-"

As he twists the aged knob to the side, instead of the window lowering inward like windows in the Netherlands usually do, it completely dislodged from its hinges and slides inside, the glass shattering as it comes in contact with the floor in great commotion. The rest of the team only barely managed to roll away before they were inevitably pancaked by the window- Ava who tucked and rolled towards the cupboards, John who army-crawled towards the table, and Yelena who lurched towards the entrance to the kitchen with Bob in tow.

They gawk both at the wreckage and each other, startled. A beat passes and they hear a sudden drumming of heavy footsteps coming from one of the bedrooms, the door flew open reverberating through the entire apartment.

“YELENA?! YELENA?!-”

Alexei comes running into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxers and a robe- he instantly relaxes when he sees Yelena glaring at him over her shoulder. “Hi, dad.”

The man stands there, stupefied. “Wh- what are you doing???”

Yelena pauses, lost in thought. “People-watching.” She settled.

“He's gone-!” John's voice suddenly called out. Ava, Yelena, and Bob rush towards the window only to see that the boat was gone and Bucky along with it. Each one of them shared a look of defeat and a disgruntled sigh that seemed to ricochet across each member of the team as they moved around the window. They promised each other that this wouldn’t be the last time they’d catch Bucky leaving and hear some lame excuse to patch up the real story.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

When he finally came back after a week, they all entered the kitchen together which earned them a raised brow from Bucky who was enjoying a cup of coffee by the window.

“You guys look like a herd of terrified gazelles moving through a grazing patch.”

“Bucky,” John began. “We need to talk.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Oh good, are you guys finally gonna tell me who opened the one window the landlady told us not to open, broke it, and is helping me explain to her why there's broken glass hidden under the fridge?”

“No, that isn't what we wanted to talk abo-”

“-It was Bob, Bob did it.” Ava interjects, glancing over at Bob who stiffened at the sudden turn of the conversation.

Bucky's eyes shut tight as he pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar habit. “How many times do I gotta make myself clear not to open things you aren't supposed to open?”

Bob's eyes widened even more. “I- I only opened it because John and Yelena and Ava were arguing about why you kept on disappearing, an-and they saw you outside with the boat so-”

“-Exactly, why were you outside with the boat at 7 in the morning?” Yelena appends quickly, narrowing her eyes at Bucky, his face passive.

Alexei chuckles as he leans forward to look over at Yelena. "Right??? Makes you think- Where is that guy off to all the time??? He is like every cheating father in the American dramas that claims he is going on so-called work trip but is secretly seeing mistress that looks like she just graduated from highschool." He chimes, albeit rather colourfully.

“I wanted to do a sweep of the red-light district to see if our informant’s been telling us the truth. He has. That special event some of LaForteza's men are hosting tomorrow night is the perfect cover for some recon, slipping in and out the bar would be easy. Then I had to stay in Washington for a couple of days because I got my couch reupholstered and needed to turn over the keys to my office.” Bucky says with ease, like he'd practiced this a dozen times.

“Bullshit.” Yelena spat, which had the same effect as a streak of lightning lighting up the sky seconds before a deafening thunderclap.

"We can't work a mission where you disappear days at a time when we’re only left with a little note on the fridge.” Ava seethed. “Gone to collect my things at the office, need to sign off on some documents- it doesn't take a week to do either of those things, Bucky. We know you’ve submitted your resignation letter for Congress bloody ages ago!”

“Well I don't know if you haven't noticed but it's pretty hard trying to do all these things when you're under cover and have to fly across oceans, so I'm sorry if I keep you waiting.” Bucky reasons.

“We aren't leaving you alone until we get the truth outta you. No more stupid excuses, no more lies.” Says John this time. “Being lied to feels like shit, you don't gotta be a hundred years old to know that.”

“Why the hell have you been sneaking around like we wouldn't notice and taking phone calls when you think nobody’s listening?” Yelena asks once and for all. The sunlight had only now started peeking out over the roofs of the hedges of houses and shops that lined the streets. Beams of buttery sunlight illuminated the otherwise dreary kitchen. They all stood there, blanketed by immense silence. "Are you going to answer my question or are we going to sit here in dead silence?"

Bucky sets his mug down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, but let's get one thing absolutely straight. I'm not pulling a goddamn Lotso on a mission I've risked my life numerous times for."

John straightens from his spot instantly. "How does he know Lo- have you watched Toy Story 3?” his eyes swung like a pendulum, looking at Yelena beside him to Bucky in front of him.

"Who?" Yelena wonders, raising an eyebrow.

Bob slumped. "Come on, the pink bear? The one with the cane?"

"Ahhh," Yelena says after a beat, pointing a finger at him. "Is he the one that kept eating sandwiches and went to jail?"

Ava opens out her hands, palms facing the ceiling as she frowns at Yelena. "No, that's Paddington. And there's more to his story than him going to jail! he's helped out so many people, made so many marmalade sandwiches, and is the most polite bear that ever graced television."

"So why did he get arrested?"

"He was framed! Because Hugh Grant stole the pop-up book he's been saving up for!" Ava argued.

Yelena's brows furrow even more. "Who's-"

"-Are you done? Because my coffee's getting cold." Bucky drawled, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

"Look, man, if you're working against us now is a good time to tell us." John chimes in, moving past the rest of his teammates and advancing on Bucky. “I don't know what kinda game you're playing with us here, watching us connect the dots while you’re off someplace else doing only God knows what- but if you can’t already tell we’re a team now. Which means we do this shit as a team. If we can't trust each other, why bother?”

“Shockingly, he is very right.” Alexei says from the back of the group.

Bucky sighed, shifting his weight onto the other foot. "If I tell you, people's lives will be in danger, not just mine." He says, tone heavy with meaning. "I'm sure as hell not letting that happen, not when I just started getting a handle on things- not when things just started to look up for me."

"What are you talking about?" Yelena demands, voice rising. "What else could you have got to lose, Barnes?"

"Everything." Bucky answers without missing a beat. “I'm asking you to believe me when I say that I'm not jeopardising this mission nor am I double-crossing any of you. I know it's asking a lot but I want you guys to trust me.”

“Can we?” Yelena wonders, making Bucky's gaze flit across the group.

“You can.” He says. “I promise.”

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Several weeks later they are dancing through the jam-packed streets of Amsterdam lit up by head-ache-inducing neon signs and differently colored bulbs. Several black-ops agents remained hot on their tail as they slip into a dark alleyway, taking a detour inside a busy kitchen where they are overwhelmed by the cacophony of angry voices yelling in Dutch and English, the chopping of vegetables, the fervent stirring, the clanging of pots, the sizzling of a wok that quickly erupted flames. One of the line cooks suddenly appeared from the walk-in and handed Bucky a duffle bag; they exchanged a brief conversation in Dutch before the line cook patted Bucky on his metal arm and left, seemingly to go back to his station.

Bucky turns to the rest of them, beaten up and in bad shape. Everyone had suffered too many bruised and wounds to count, John was shot in the shoulder and needed bandaging, Alexei was nearly gutted by one of the agents that had a knife, Yelena was trying to get Bob to calm down after becoming The Sentry so as not to invite the other terrible twin to surface, Ava had a sprained ankle, and Bucky was pretty sure he broke a couple of his ribs.

“We can’t go back to the apartment, it isn't safe, chances are they've been tracing our steps since before we left Ibiza.” Bucky informed them all, slouched, out-of-breath, and wincing at him as they tried to listen. “We gotta leave Amsterdam before dawn or we’re as good as dead.”

“All the evidence we've been building for the past year, the maps, the photos, everything- we left everything back in the apartment for them to see. We might've just handed all our progress to LaForteza on a goddamn silver platter.” John yelled, leaning against the bread rack before one of the cooks pulled the bread rack to the side and shooed him away.

“Which is why they'll know where we're headed to next, they're gonna reroute all their operations, go underground, cover their tracks to the point that they've completely erased themselves from the face of the Earth. But that won't matter, not when we've got all the proof we need.” Says Bucky, pulling out a leatherbound journal from one of his pockets to show to the rest of the team.

Ava makes a sound, almost like a scoff but also a wheeze. “Where do you expect us to go after we've just unleashed hell on their operation? We're literally standing in the middle of a scorching kitchen bleeding all over the floor.” She gestures to the busy kitchen around them. “It's surprising they haven't kicked us out by now.”

“We'll figure it out on the way.” Says Bucky. “For now, we'll get dressed and get the hell outta here.” He drops the duffle bag on the floor and starts handing out articles of clothing to the rest of the team. Out of the corner of Yelena's eye she sees Bob pulling at his torn sweater and pivots on her heel to face him.

“He didn't mean right now, Bob.” She said, causing him to pause mid-action before he pulls the sweater down and shoots her a little smile.

“Woops.”

She turns another couple of degrees to spot Alexei half-way through unbuckling his suit, his helmet and belt already discarded on the floor. “Let go of that zipper!"

The same line cook from earlier showed up once more and escorted them to the locker rooms where they all hastily got dressed. Then when they finished, Bucky moves one of the lockers aside, revealing a crawl space that leads to an abandoned part of the Amsterdam Metro. Once they managed to hitch a ride on the back of a truck, steal a family wagon, and get to the quinjet it was smooth sailing. So to speak.

Bucky, who had taken upon himself to pilot the jet, hadn't spoken a word since they took off. Too laser focused on the dark skies ahead and the controls. Yelena only approaches him after they've stabilized in the air and Bucky had turned on autopilot to hopefully stretch his legs inside the cockpit.

“So, have you finally decided to tell us where we're going or do we have to stare into your dark, broody eyes to figure it out?” She wonders, making him let out yet another heavy sigh. By now everyone who had been resting had perked up at the sound of Yelena's voice and the sudden apparition of Bucky inside the cockpit.

“Livorno. I've got a place there near the port. It's secluded, but also busy enough in the day for us to slip in and out without getting unwanted attention.” Bucky finally answers. “We can squat there for the time being, lay low while we figure out a solid plan.”

“We've already lit one of their dens on fire. If they realize we've stolen LaForteza's journal too it won't be long until they come after us.”

“That is, if they do notice it's gone.” Says Bucky. “When you, Alexei, John, and Bob were taking out the guards Ava and I broke into the safe, swapped it out with a replica. If we manage to intercept their plans in Croatia, we'll manage to end this once and for all.”

Bucky places the journal on one of the crates, open to a page where he points at a cut out map- several red lines stretching out across Europe converging on what was marked to be Belgium. The team gathers around him. “They're shutting down all their operations in South-Eastern and North-Western Europe and they’re bringing what's left of their supply to a giant EDM festival in Split happening in five days.” He explains.

“So then we sneak in, guns ready, take them out once and for all. Easy Peasy.” Says Alexei with a grin.

“Except there'll be thousands of people, we can't risk endangering any more civilians.” Ava reasons, raising an eyebrow. “With the amount of weapons we have there's no way they'll let us in at the checkpoint.”

“Hence the sneaking.” Alexei clarifies, two of his fingers prancing atop the journal.

“There has to be some other way to get in undetected. If those people at the festival take whatever LaForteza’s goons have been distributing there's no guaranteeing what'll happen to them.”

“We've got an hour and fifty minutes in the air, try and rest up, yeah?” Bucky sighed as he attempted to get comfortable on one of the long bench-like chairs in the cockpit, cracking his neck.

Yelena scoffs. “I'll rest when I'm dead.”

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Half an hour before their descent Bucky wakes everyone up. Yelena seemed to be well-rested, what with using Bob's arm as a pillow, and of course John who somehow woke up on the floor of the quinjet with Ava sleeping on the chair beside him. Alexei had been keeping Bucky awake for the duration of the trip, recounting his conquests in Russia as the Red Guardian which made Bucky question the accuracy of his stories.

They hid the quinjet in a secluded warehouse and began the trek to Bucky's place. Moving through the lively cobblestone streets of Livorno undetected. The air smelt strongly of salt and brine, ships both large and small were entering the harbor, and the faint hollers of sailors could be heard coming from the docks. Long lines of laundry could be seen hung across the windows of houses, pink bougainvilleas lined the streets. Bucky takes them through a set of narrow alleyways, passing by a group of teenagers heading down to the beach and a man singing an Italian love whilst playing an guitar.

They stop at one of the houses at the end of what seemed to be the umpteenth alleyway they've walked through. Bucky approaches the front door first, kicking what was a pebble out of his way, to knock. It had white bouganvilleas crawling all over the front of the house, rows of different colored flowers in different sized pots lined the entrance, all the shutters painted green were closed. It didn't take long for them to notice the brightly colored drawings in chalk on the path they were standing on, scrawled on butterflies, rainbows, and flowers- or the purple bike with shimmery tassels and training wheels pushed to the side near the door and beside a golden pothos.

They exchanged glances of confusion- but also, a look of understanding.

The door creaks open and they see a woman standing in between the gap, unsure if she was supposed to look happy or confused. She looked like she had just woken up but had gotten dressed to go somewhere. “James what are- oh my god what happened to your face?” You began, opening the door wider to step outside, taking Bucky's face into your hands.

That's when they all see it.

The wedding ring glinting in the morning sunlight, clear as day. They all slowly, almost comically, turn to look at eachother, baffled. John's mouth parted in shock, Ava's brows rose, Yelena's eyes widened.

“James??? ” Ava mumbled in shock.

Yelena opens her mouth, closes it, then shrugs- frowning at the girl.

“She's got a ring.” John mouthed to the group, with his hand concealing one side of his mouth. Yelena rolls her eyes so far back it hurts.

“Bucky's married???” Bob's whispers suit, clearly in disbelief.

“I told you.” Alexei enunciates joyfully, pointing at Bob's face, jaw on the floor. But who wasn't at this point?

They just found out Bucky has been married this whole time.

“Hey, don't worry about it, it's nothing.” Says Bucky, taking your hands into his. “It looks worse than it feels, trust me.”

You placed your other hand on your hips, eyeing him oh so incredulously before you narrowed your eyes at him. “Sure it is, tell that to someone who believes you, hmm?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder to look at his team, their intense yet homely demeanour only demanded more questions out of you. “We needed a place to squat for a day or two, think of a plan… we couldn't risk going back to the compound or Geneva.” He says to you as you look at them curiously. “I promise we weren't followed, we scrubbed our tracks clean.”

You exhaled deeply, lifting a hand to cup his cheek- your thumb grazing over the stubble that had formed over the course of several weeks without it being touched by a razor blade. “Could’ve called me, told me you were coming… I could’ve cleaned up a little.”

Bucky smiles. Smiles. The rest of them don't know whether to watch in horror or in awe. “Had to see you again somehow, one week is never enough.”

You snort in suppressed laughter before you glanced towards the rest of the team. “You guys must be tired as hell, I hope James hasn't run you into the ground by now. Come in!” She smiled warmly, her head motions towards the inside of the house. “Dropped by just in time, you guys like pancakes?”

“Yes please.” Bob chirped from the side, earning a glance from the others. They all file into a single line as they enter the home, you could tell that somebody lived here and not squats here on occasion- what with the mismatched pieces of furniture that complimented the interior of the house well. There was your standard coffee table except it looked like a smaller picnic table, a bookcase lined with endless books, odd trinkets, photographs, a TV, a vintage lamp, another vintage lamp near the 8-seater dining table, a gramophone sitting by the corner of the room in pristine condition.

Then they see a teepee in the shape of a princess castle, little animals dressed in vintage clothes beneath the TV having a tea party next to a well-furnished toy townhouse with multiple rooms, stuffed animals, barbie dolls on top of the coffee table, books with brightly colored illustrations scattered across the floor with endless crayons and pencils, and a backpack with pieces of paper sticking out from the opening.

At the top left of one of the papers, there was a scrawled on name written in pencil. Madeline Barnes.

“Don't mind the mess, we're usually much tidier if we knew we'd be having guests over.” She says, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “I'm Y/N, by the way. You guys don't have to introduce yourselves anymore, James tells me a lot about all of you.”

“We didn't even know you existed.” Ava uttered, astonished, mirroring the dumbfounded expression the rest of them had as they stared at Bucky with his arm around his wife's waist- looking at you with so much love in his eyes that the rest of them felt like this was a social experiment. Bucky? Married? Bucky? In love? It didn't sit right with them at all. They were four words they'd never imagined would fit altogether in a sentence.

“Yeah, well I had to keep that part of my life a secret for a reason. It's why I've been disappearing every now and then.” Bucky explains, and all of a sudden it starts making sense. One by one they all managed to grapple with the fact that Bucky lived with a wife here, and a daughter.

“Is she up yet?” He whispered. You shook your head from side to side.

“Nah, Maddie was still asleep when I went downstairs. She might be now though.” You tell Bucky like you anticipated what was to happen next. Then from the floor above them, they could hear the sound of feet rapidly padding across the floor and then out of nowhere a little girl in purple pajamas ran down the stairs. Bucky bent down to grab her and she leaped into his arms- overcome with giggles as she squirmed in Bucky's grip.

“d'you miss me, sweetheart?”

The little girl nods adamantly, deep blue eyes glistening with excitement. “Uh-huh! I missed you sooooo much, Daddy. Loads and loads. Last night I dreamt that the next day when I woke up you'd be there and then I whispered it to Mommy cuz I thought it was silly, but she was kinda asleep so I don't think she heard me and then I woke up today and I heard your voice!”

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. “What??? You're kidding, there's no way you could have guessed I was coming to visit today.”

“But I did, and now you're here! I have magic, I'm just like Twilight!” She affirmed, grinning at him as she toys with his hair. But then she pauses. “Daddy, are you having a playdate?”

“No, sweetheart, why?” Bucky wonders, furrowing his brows.

She glances at the rest of his teammates. “Cuz all your friends are here!”

“Yeah, no, we're not having a playdate honey. I brought them over here because we got tired… playing and they're hungry.” Bucky explains briefly, shooting them all a look as they all nodded and agreed as a collective.

“Sure are… we're really tired from all the running around… that we did.” Says John.

Ava laughs, nodding. “Pshh, super tired. All the other people we were playing with didn't stand a chance! They dropped dead in seconds!” Ava earned a jab on the side from Yelena.

The shorter woman laughed nervously. “What she meant was that we were so fast that we caught them all, and they lost and… went back home.”

Her eyes lit up. “What were you guys playing? Can I play too?!? Mommy i'm going to get my outside slippers-”

You intervened, shaking your head as you took Maddie from Bucky’s arms, bringing her away. “Nuh-uh no one’s playing outside until we have breakfast.” You tell her as her lower lip protrudes into a pout, that is until she realizes what was placed on top of the dining table.

“YAAAY! Pancakes!” She squealed, pumping her tiny fists into the air as you placed her on her designated seat at the dining table. “Wait… Mommy, did you read my mind or something? I was dreaming about pancakes last night, yknow.” She accuses you with a suspicious look on her face.

“No baby, I just knew.” You tell her, smiling. “Must be a coincidence, huh?”

Maddie giggled as you fixed her curly hair out of her face. “Yeah, coins-incident.”

“You had tiny soldier all along, eh?” Alexei whispered fondly, draping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Looks very much like you, beautiful girl. Reminds me of my ‘Lena when she was little. I hope you and the wife gave yourselves a pat on the back after uhh… hanky-panky. Nicely done, my friend.”

Yelena makes a grumbling noise somewhere on their right as you invite the rest of them to take a seat. “Let's eat now, yes?” She called out rather impatiently.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Thanks?”

Alexei pays no mind and simply keeps going. “Very rewarding, fatherhood. Being father? not easy, but very worth it. Fighting off grizzly bear in the forest in Winter with nothing but nail clipper and beer bottle? Much easier. When she learns how to shoot with a glock for the first time? You find you will cry a lot, tears and the snot.”

You appear on Bucky's left, carrying a pitcher of orange juice you've retrieved from the fridge. “You two can bond over being fathers after the three-year-old gremlin in purple and the rest of the assassins in this room get to eat a proper meal, okay?” You pat him on the chest before moving towards the table.

“Lucked out on wife too! Such wonderful hostess, you will build strong army of little soldiers soon, I am counting on it.” Alexei grinned. “I cannot wait to share wisdom words to you as a father who raised his little girls into becoming strong, cutthroat killers.”

“Appreciate it, man.” Bucky replies, trying not to sigh.

They all settled and ate the wonderful breakfast spread consisting not only of a hefty stack of pancakes but fresh berries, hash browns, bacon, and sunny side up eggs- of course with chocolate milk and orange juice to wash it all down.

“Sorry, we just ran out of coffee. I hope the chocolate milk will suffice for now.” You say, as you passed the plate of bacon to John who briefly muttered a ‘thank you’ to you.

“I haven't had chocolate milk in forever.” Says Yelena in assurance. “It's no issue.”

Maddie's jaw dropped in shock. “What??? But how??? ” She squawked.

Yelena shrugged, leaning back against her chair almost cooly. “There was a really bad man that didn't let me drink chocolate milk for a long time.”

Maddie seemed outraged, like the foulest of offenses against humanity have been committed- and it might as well have. “You can come here and drink as much chocolate milk as you want, I wouldn't mind! My Mommy wouldn't mind either! Right Mommy?”

You nodded in agreement, chuckling. “Yup, Auntie Yelena can come over and drink as much chocolate milk as she wants.”

“Oh! Also Auntie Ava.” Maddie added with a toothy grin, making the woman sitting across from her smile gratefully. “And then we'll play princess mermaids in my room and I'll teach them how to curtsy and wave while riding the carriage like a real princess.”

“What about the boys, can they play too?” Ava wondered with a smirk, as she glanced over to look at Alexei, Bob, and John who sat at the other edge of the table. Yelena lets out a laugh.

“Only if they want to be pulling our carriage.” Maddie mutters before taking a sip of chocolate milk from her my little pony cup, making the rest of you erupt with laughter.

Yelena snorts. “Hear that Walker? She's making you be the horse.”

“What if I wanna be the footman?” John says. “Can't I be a footman? ”

“Hey man, if she lets you play it's best not to ask any questions.” Says Bucky before taking a sip of water. “Trust me.”

“If you want, you can be one of the princess's pet chickens! They ride inside the carriage!”

Right on cue, Bob chokes on his juice and cleverly plays it off as an accident.

“So uhh, Y/N.” John began, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of the conversation. “How'd you and Bucky meet?”

Your eyes move across the dining table, meeting Bucky's eyes as he looks at you knowingly.

“Funny story actually uhh, I was sent on a mission to track down one of HYDRA's elitist assets after the fall of SHIELD. I followed him all the way to Romania, then Vienna, stalked him. Then the whole bombing at the United Nations happened just as they were about to sign the Sokovia Accords. Went back to my superiors empty handed because of his involvement with the Avengers.” You tell them. “Second time around, I tracked him all the way into Wakanda, nearly lost an arm because of it. He fought me off exceptionally well for a man with just one arm, and then when it came to it I just couldn't kill him.”

“Then they fell in love and got married.” Maddie finished before taking a bite of her pancakes. “Then came me, the end! ”

“So, who did you work for?” Yelena wonders, raising a quizzical brow.

Your tongue kissed your teeth before ushering Maddie to finish her glass of water and turn on the TV to watch her cartoons. To which she happily agreed. When she was preoccupied only then did you continue.

“I was one of the defected Widows they threw out after they realized we were no good at our job. They saw us as liabilities in the field. We never completed our training hence…” You tell her looking over at your daughter, giggling at the TV. You cleared your throat and spoke again. “Dreykov wanted us gone but I guess the world hasn't had enough of me yet so I crawled my way out, got back on my own two feet. Ended up on the streets of Madripoor, living off of people's wallets. I started working as a shadow operative for one of the most elusive crime bosses in Southeast Asia, but I wanted an out- a clean slate so I agreed to help Bucky and Sam out when they were taking down the Flag Smashers, covertly.” She finishes, eyes landing on John who stared at her like she'd grown another arm from her head.

“Dreykov orders firing squads, they dispose of the bodies in the incinerator.” Yelena told you, clearly puzzled. “How did you-”

“Just not mine.” You reply, a faint smirk ghosting on your lips. “I guess Dreykov isn't so good at cleaning his tracks afterall.”

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After clearing all the plates and Ava offering to help with the dishes, you, Bucky, Alexei, and John went outside as they needed a change of bandages. You weren't about to scar your child. So you left her in the living room with the rest of the team, telling her to be on her best behavior.

“Jesus, they look so bright now.” Yelena says all of a sudden as she frowned at the television. Maddie sat in the middle of the living room with her dollhouse as she played with the fuzzy animals, writing a story as she went along.

“What?” Bob says from beside Maddie, holding a small husky in a sweater vest and slacks.

“The ponies.” She says, pointing her chin towards the television. “They used to be… easier on the eyes.”

“You used to watch My Little Pony?” Bob chuckles.

“Yeah, back in Ohio. My favorite was Twilight, I'd always force my sister to watch it with me but she never wanted to.” She smiled, remembering the times during her childhood where the days seemed brighter, warmer.

Maddie stopped playing to turn around to look at Yelena. “She's my favorite too!”

Yelena grinned. “Really?”

“She's my favoritest favorite out of all the Mane 6, my pajamas have Twilight all over them!” She points out, pointing at her sleeve where an outline of Twilight in a darker purple could be seen. She only now notices how Maddie's pajamas were full of Twilight's face alongside her cutie mark. “Do you have any other favorites, Auntie Lena?”

She then proceeds to think. “Hmm, Rainbow Dash is a close second.”

Her eyes glimmered with interest as she takes into account Yelena's answer. “Fluttershy is my favoritest favorite number 2.” She says, turning back to her toys. “Uncle Bob is a lot like Fluttershy, cuz they’re both very quiet but really nice.”

“You think so?” Bob wonders earnestly as he watches the little girl arrange a rabbit family inside the doll houses' living room to make it seem like they were watching TV just like the three of them were.

She looks up at him. “Uh-huh!” Maddie replied. “And so is Auntie Lena, and Auntie Ava, and Alexei… and only the tiniest bit Uncle John cuz Daddy said that before when I was a baby he was pretending to be his best friend Uncle Steve and hit him and Uncle Sam a lot. But now he's not a sock sucker anymore? I don't know, that's what Daddy said. Then Mommy got mad.”

Yelena sits up from her once laxed position on the sofa. “You really think that?”

“Uh-huh.” She explains, fixing her hair out of her face. “I know it, cuz you guys are playing with me. So you guys are nice people.”

Yelena meets Bob's eyes amidst the momentary pause in conversation. The lives they’ve led were not anything to be proud of, not in the slightest. They were in this constant cycle of shame and regret that they’ve allowed it to nestle deep inside themselves and eat them from the inside out. Yet this child thinks they were nice people regardless. It didn’t matter if she didn’t know what they’ve done, it mattered that someone said it, that someone sees past their faults.

“Uncle Bob! the Dad needs to be in the garage, not the bathroom! He just got home from the office!” Maddie interrupted, bringing them back to the moment.

“Oh sorry, right.” says Bob, bringing the husky out of the house and have him enter through the back door. Bob clears his throat. “Honey! i’m h-“

“-Not like that!” Maddie whines, laughing. “Why is your voice so weird?”

“I had creative freedom and I took it,” Bob defended. “Okay, i’ll start over.”

“Can I join?” Yelena asks all of a sudden, intrigued.

“Okay! You can be the girl husky. She owns this hamburger stand and sells hamburgers and fries and also soda.” Maddie blurted out excitedly, pulling the little hamburger stand closer to the house as Yelena moved to sit on the floor beside Maddie. She lets out a sound of approval.